


The Heist

by mothermantids



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 37
Words: 39,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28974681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothermantids/pseuds/mothermantids
Summary: After the war, a group of Death Eaters was arrested and their fortunes confiscated by the Ministry. Their children struggle to survive; resolving to stripping, betting, and street fighting, all aided by copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. After the Ministry announces that the money will be held in Gringotts Bank, the Slytherins decide to rob it back.However, the exact location of the vault is concealed in only one person. In order to successfully pull off the heist, the Slytherins are going to need the missing piece of the puzzle:Hermione Granger.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 51
Kudos: 33
Collections: dramione to read





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, darlings!
> 
> This is the first-ever fic I’ve written, of any kind, for any fandom. I’m beyond excited to be sharing it with you! And while I do expect some level of criticism, please remember to be kind.
> 
> Most of the characters in this fic are the creation of J.K. Rowling. I do not lay any claim over them. However, there are a few minor characters who belong to me.
> 
> There are quite a few components of this fic that are not canon, as goes with most fics. One of the biggest being that Draco Malfoy never actually got the Dark Mark while working for Voldemort. Some spells and charms are also not canon.
> 
> The group lives in London, however, they remain strictly in the wizarding parts of the city. There are not any Muggle/wizard overlaps.
> 
> A special thanks to Annie, Nat, and Sayaka for combing through each part at my continuous request. This wouldn't be anything without you.
> 
> For those who love Dramione, this fic was partly inspired by malf0y101’s “Happy Pills” (the blueprint for Slytherins doing drugs), and the Netflix show “La Casa de Papel.”
> 
> Lastly, this fic contains material that may be upsetting to some readers, including drug and alcohol usage, graphic sex, violence, and rape. Explicitly triggering scenes will be marked with asterisks. However, please use your best judgment when reading.
> 
> I appreciate each and every one of you.
> 
> mothermantids

Hermione Granger paces the length of the meeting room, her heart beating in her chest. Every few minutes, she glances at the wooden door in front of her. She bites her lip, tasting bits of blood and lipstick as the skin flakes off onto her tongue. She pauses on one end of the room, adjusts her blazer, and continues pacing.

Her mind is racing, her stomach thick with the familiar feeling of nausea. She doesn’t know why she’s nervous, there isn’t any reason to be. She had wanted this, fought for this. She just hadn’t expected it to turn out exactly this way. The short ends of her fingernails dig into her palms, as she shuts her eyes and tries to steady her breathing.

The knock on the door makes her jump. She smooths down the front of her skirt, watching expectantly as it swings open, revealing the tall frame of Kingsley Shacklebolt and a shorter, squatter goblin in his wake. Kingsley offers her a heartfelt smile, closing and locking the meeting room door behind them. She does her best to return the gesture, but she can feel her lips twitching.

“Are you ready, Ms. Granger?” He asks, placing a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder. She nods and extends her hand towards the goblin, who takes it between his own. She tries to focus on the words he’s muttering, but the blood pounding in her ears drowns him out. She watches as Kingsley lifts his wand and rests the tip on the interlocked hands, tapping it once, twice, three times before uttering a phrase.

“Fidelius leporem.”

Hermione feels a slight tingling begin in between her fingers, the sensation spreading up her arm and dispersing into the rest of her body. She waits for the faint glowing of Kingsley’s wand to fade, before releasing her grip on the goblin’s hands. She shivers slightly, her arms darting to cross her chest. The goblin only nods.

“If there’s nothing else either of you would like to say, I suppose we’re done here,” Kingsley reckons, tucking his wand back into the pocket of his robes. “Good afternoon, then.” He flashes Hermione another smile before disappearing out of the meeting room, followed closely by the goblin. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to take a deep breath.

It’s over. And now, she’s the only one that knows.


	2. I

Pansy Parkinson perches on the windowsill, her head resting against the cold glass, her eyes focused on the lights of London beneath her. She lifts a glass bong with her left hand as her lips make contact with the rim, breathing in the bitter cannabis. She tilts her head against the wall behind her, the smoke sequestered in her lungs, the high seeping through her body. She stretches her naked legs.

Rolling her head to the side, Pansy focuses her gaze on the blonde figure slumped over the couch beside her. She holds a silver metal lighter in her right hand, caresses the length with her thumb, before tossing it through the air. It hits the blonde head, who grunts in response.

“The fuck, Pans?” She sits up on the couch, swiping the back of her hand over her nose. The crust of dried blood flakes off onto her skin.

“You want a hit or not?” Pansy extends the arm clutching the bong. Daphne Greengrass grumbles, pulling herself to her feet. Like Pansy, she isn’t wearing any clothes. Her faded pink underwear is the only thing standing between her and the naked air.

She takes the bong from Pansy, lights the bowl with the lighter still in her hand, and inhales deeply. She holds the smoke inside her lungs, her eyelids fluttering shut. Taking a step forward, she leans in so that her face is mere inches from her friend’s, and exhales a stream of smoke. Pansy opens her mouth to catch it. She laughs.

Daphne passes the bong back, stepping backward and leaning over the arm of the couch, her back falling onto the cold leather. She watches the ceiling above her as she feels a rush of euphoria come over her body. Her muscles relax.

“Cross your ankles, Daph, I can see your cunt from here.” Pansy reaches out her foot, kicking Daphne’s leg. The blonde swings them over the arm of the couch, pulling herself into a seated position. She reaches for a black t-shirt balled on the floor beneath her feet. A half-empty box of cigarettes is hidden underneath it.

Daphne pulls the shirt over her head and fingers a cigarette from the carton. She places it between her lips and leans over the side of the couch towards Pansy, who lights it. “We’re almost out,” she groans, tipping the remaining cigarettes into the palm of her hand. “This will last like what, one night?”

“Theo said he’d get more,” Pansy replies, taking another hit from the bong. “Whenever the fuck he gets back.” She glances at the broken clock atop the fireplace mantel. Theo had enchanted it to permanently read 6:66.

She sighs, her hands rubbing up and down her bare legs to warm them. There’s a yellowing bruise just underneath her knee, and she winces at the contact. The stiletto points of her nails draw lines into her skin, tracing along the flesh. She watches as the scratches form.

The front door bangs open, revealing three hooded figures. Daphne leaps to her feet, the cigarettes bouncing off of her chest. Pansy’s gaze lands on the figure in the middle and she scoffs.

“You fucking idiot.”

Theodore Nott stumbles into the room, his face bruised and bloody, his brown curls dripping with sweat. He’s supported on either side by Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, who guide him into the living room. Theo collapses onto the couch, groaning at the contact. 

Daphne bends down, her hand brushing Theo’s curls out of his eyes. She surveys his injuries; a black eye, a broken nose. There’s blood staining his shirt underneath his jacket, soaking through the white fabric. She reaches for her wand, but he raises a hand to stop her.

“Leave it, Daph. Consider it my badge of honor.” Theo attempts a smirk, but his face is too splintered for the expression to appear cohesive. Instead, one half of his mouth turns up at the corner, the other spurting blood from a split in the skin.

“Your badge of honor?” Pansy repeats, a twinge of sarcasm in her voice. “You mean to say you didn’t lose?”

Blaise pulls his hooded sweatshirt off, discarding it onto the floor. He stretches his arms, twisting from side to side, trying to dispel the tension in his muscles. “Almost did. Other guy got him down a couple of times. We thought we were fucked.”

Pansy fixes her gaze on Draco as Daphne blots at the blood on Theo’s face with the fallen sweatshirt. She bites her lip, a sadistic smile forming on her face.

“How much, then?”

Draco returns the smile and shakes his head, unzipping his jacket. A cloth bag tumbles out, jingling as it crashes to the floor. He picks it up and tosses it at Pansy, who unties it and looks inside. Her eyes widen.

“Holy fuck.”

The bag glitters with shiny gold galleons. She picks one up, holds it up to the overhead light, and lets out a gleeful shriek. Draco snatches the bag back from her, sliding to a sitting position underneath the windowsill. He fingers the gold, turning it over again and again in his palms.

“It’s rent,” Blaise grunts. He picks a cigarette off of the floor and lights the tip with his wand, choosing to ignore the silver lighter resting in Pansy’s outstretched palm. “Partridge raised it. Stupid fucker.”

“He can’t do that,” Daphne argues, the sweatshirt held tight to Theo’s face. Despite the dark color of the fabric, the bloodstains are becoming more and more apparent. “It’s the middle of the month!”

“Apparently he’s gotten too many noise complaints,” Blaise takes a long draw from his cigarette. “I told him it was fucking bullshit, but he threatend to kick us out. Says one more complaint and we’re done.”

Daphne groans. Theo’s nose has stopped bleeding, but the bruising continues to spread. Both of his eyes are swollen and puffy.

“How much did he raise it?” She asks, glancing over at the bag in Draco’s hands. She bites her lip, picturing just how much the contents could get her, could get all of them.

“There won’t be anything left over,” Blaise mutters. He strokes his jaw with his free hand, feeling the roughness of the black stubble. His fingers move to massage his temple in an attempt to banish the ever-present pounding in his head. 

“We’re out of cigs,” Pansy grumbles, passing the bong down to Draco who accepts it gratefully. “You said you’d get more.” Her eyes narrow at Theo, who pushes himself up, the bloodied sweatshirt tumbling to the floor. He reaches for the half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey tucked underneath the coffee table and downs it.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Pans? I just pulled rent for the month. What about you? Can’t you shake your ass a little faster and earn us some more money? I haven’t bumped in a week, I swear to Merlin I’m gonna lose it.” He tosses the empty bottle to the side of the room, watching victoriously as the glass shatters across the floor. Pansy jumps to her feet, her eyes burning with anger. She grabs Theo by the collar and pushes him up against the wall.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” She sucks in her tongue, then leans back and spits into his face. The saliva rolls down his cheek, mixing with the blood from his broken nose. “Or you’ll be paying for a lot more than the rent.”

Their eyes meet for a split second, anger and desire burning beneath their irises, before Theo bursts out laughing. Pansy’s expression softens, and he slings an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his chest. Draco shakes his head, a smirk forming on his lips.

Theo takes a seat back on the couch, pulling Pansy into his lap. She leans her head back into the crook of his neck, the high still controlling her body. Daphne unfolds herself onto the couch next to them, placing her head in Pansy’s lap. She closes her eyes.

This is how the night always ends. Two years after the end of the Second Wizarding War, as the London sun peeks over the horizon, the five friends dull their senses, curl up into different corners of the flat, and wait for the pain to pass.


	3. II

The club is crowded. Music blares from every corner of the dingy room, colorful strobes flash in sync with the beat. Wizards mill about the lounge; some choose seats at small tables, others disappear into dimly-lit hallways. A neon sign hangs in the entrance. All who enter here tell no tales of the sins we possess.

Pansy stands in front of a dirty mirror, pressing false lashes tightly to the seams of her eyelids. Her makeup is dark; green and intimidating. Stepping back, she allows herself to gaze upon her appearance. Her body is clad in a black lace singlet, cut low over her breasts and high on her hips. She adorns her thigh with a forest-green leather garter.

Daphne sneaks up behind her, a cigarette held between her lips. The two girls differ like night and day: Daphne’s blonde hair falls in curls around her torso, covering the baby pink of her bikini top. She’s wearing a silver thong, dappled in glitter and rhinestones. She’s undoubtedly the angel to Pansy’s devil.

Pansy pulls the cigarette from Daphne’s lips, sucking in the sweet aroma. She tilts her head from side to side, stretching out her neck. She needs to be as loose as she can. Merlin knows they need the money.

“How many people are out there?” She asks, moving to stretch out her legs and hips. “Do they look like tippers?”

Daphne pulls a few galleons out of the cloth bag tied to her waist and flashes Pansy a smile. “All for taking the time to stop and say hi.” Pansy shakes her head, biting her lip and laughing. She’d need to do better than a couple of galleons tonight. But it was a start.

There was a knock on the dressing room door, followed by a short witch with a flashy gold eyebrow piercing. She was holding a yellowed piece of parchment marked with timestamps.

“Venus, you’re up baby,” Pansy turns her head towards the door, loosening her lips as Daphne pulls back the cigarette. She pushes a strand of black hair behind her friend’s ear, smirking.

“Give them hell, V.”

Pansy makes her way to a circular stage in the main lounge, surveying the crowd as she goes. She spots a few regulars; mainly young, burnt-out wizards looking for an easy jump-off. The war is engraved in their faces. Even here, even now. They can’t escape it. But they try.

Her pole routine is quick. Dirty. She knows how to drive them wild, how to force their hands into their pockets to slip galleons and sickles into her singlet. Her muscles move from memory. Every other night for the past few years, she’s stood on this stage and sold her soul to the devil. Now, it feels just like coming home.

As she steps down from the stage, she spots Daphne in the corner, her hips grinding into a man who will only ever know her as Delilah. She watches as the man slips galleon after galleon down her top, and smiles to herself. That amount of money could buy them a hell of a lot more cigarettes.

She waits for Daphne in the dressing room, her fingers grazing over her night’s earnings. It isn’t enough. They’ll need a lot more if they want to keep eating. Smoking. Living. She prays that Daphne has ventured into the back rooms of the club during the shift. Pansy avoids them at all costs. She doesn’t want to go there, not yet. But as her nightly earnings decrease, she wonders just how long she has until there isn’t any other choice.

Daphne returns at last, her blonde hair thick with sweat, the expression on her face one of abhorrence. She meets Pansy’s gaze, her blue eyes muddled with fear. Pansy knows not to ask any questions. She’s only thankful that her friend is safe, and that the money she’s earned will allow them both to forget.

They step out into the back alley behind the club, the cold wind biting their naked skin. Draco is outside, waiting for them. He tosses the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement as they emerge.

“Fucking finally,” he mutters, his voice thick with alcohol. “Let’s go.”

The party crosses through the alley, coming out onto a dimly-lit street on the edge of London. The faint lights of a discotheque illuminate their path as they hurry to escape the cold and quiet. It’s their typical refuge, close enough to the strip club, but far enough from the bustle of the city to feel separated. Free.

Blaise and Theo are already sitting at a table in the back of the club, empty drink glasses scattered around them. Blaise looks up as the three approach, his eyes hungry with greed. Theo slides over, pulling Pansy into the seat next to him. He places a shot of clear liquid in front of her.

“Bottoms up, Pans.”

She tilts the shot glass into her mouth, the alcohol burning her throat as she swallows. She lets out a small cough as the burning begins to disperse, and Theo laughs. His strong hand grips her thigh.

“You got the money?” Blaise asks impatiently, his eyes darting between Pansy and Daphne. “You’d better fucking have. I bought some shit, and if I don’t pay up tomorrow, I’m losing an eye.”

Daphne pulls a cloth bag from her purse, tossing it across the table to Blaise. “Don’t spend all of it, I don’t work again until Wednesday.” He shakes the bag, estimating its contents before pushing it into his coat. His closed hand reimerges, hovering over the center of the table. He unfurls his fingers, revealing five colorful tablets resting in his palm.

“You fucker!” Theo laughs, his fingers taking a tablet from Blaise’s open hand. The rest of the group does the same. Pansy places the peach-colored tablet on her tongue, the bitter taste filling her mouth. She closes her eyes as the sounds begin to amplify around her. When she opens them, the colors of the discotheque are brighter, louder. A warmth spreads through her body.

She jumps to her feet, her hands pulling Theo by the collar of his shirt. She ushers him towards the dance floor and wraps her arms around his neck, their bodies flush against each other. His fingertips grip into her, their hips rolling together with the music. Pansy lets her head fall back, savoring the feeling of Theo’s lips against her neck. She lets her mind loose, sending it as far away from here as she can. She wants nothing more than to succumb to the power of the ecstasy.

This is the only time she can get away. From the constant search for money, from the dirty feeling of strange fingers all over her. From fighting every single day to stay afloat. Here, she feels everything and nothing. She isn’t Pansy, she isn’t Venus. She isn’t anyone. She both exists and doesn’t. In this moment, time is infinite.

She knows it won’t last forever. She knows she’ll wake up tomorrow with her head pounding and her skin itching, desperate for any sort of relief. She knows she’ll be forced to pull some young wizard into the back of the club, making miracles where miracles don’t belong. And she knows that Draco, Blaise, and Theo will all come home bruised and bloodied, betting their lives for the month’s rent. But as Theo’s tongue caresses the skin of her neck, all she can think of is here and now.

And that’s enough.


	4. III

Draco stands in an empty warehouse, his hood pulled up over his blonde hair. He clenches his fists, the tape wrapped around his knuckles pulling taut. There’s sweat dripping off of his forehead, landing in miniature pools on the concrete floor. The buzzing of the onlookers roars in his ears. He cocks his arm.

WHAM.

His opponent tumbles to the floor and Draco pounces, his knee digging into the man’s groin, pinning him to the ground. He throws punch after punch, his adrenaline blocking out the pain of his swollen knuckles. He hears a crack and the man’s nose is no longer shaped correctly. Another punch and a handful of white teeth fly a few meters across the room.

Draco doesn’t stop until he hears the familiar high-pitched ringing of a whistle, signifying the end of the fight. He pushes himself up, his hair matted to his temples with sweat. The tape on his knuckles is soaked through with blood.

Blaise cops him on the shoulder, his hand massaging the back of Draco’s neck. “All right?” He asks, his eyes hesitating for a moment on the opponent. The man is still lying on the floor, whimpering as a handful of young wizards mutter charms around him. His nose snaps back into place, but the bleeding and bruising remains.

“How much on this one?” Draco asks Theo, who only shakes his head.

“Six hundred,” he replies. “It’s getting worse.”

Draco collects his winnings from a seedy-looking wizard, holding it to his chest and zipping up his jacket. He jumps once to double check that the bag is secure. It doesn’t budge.

They Apparate back to their flat. Pansy is sitting in her usual place on the windowsill, her eyes heavy with marijuana as she turns to watch their arrival. Daphne’s back leans against the wall, her arms clasped around a wastebasket. She gags and heaves.

“I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do,” Theo groans, taking a seat besides Daphne and pulling back her hair with his hand. “Draco knocked him down in five minutes. People are betting less now that he’s winning all the fucking time.” He turns to the blonde-haired boy. “Draco, mate, you’ve got to start getting the shit kicked out of you.”

“I’m not going to lose on purpose,” Draco growls. “Make Pans pick up more shifts at the club.” Pansy scoffs from her seat on the windowsill. Theo offers Draco a look of warning.

“Daph’s the one that gets all the tips,” Pansy snorts. “It’s not my fault I don’t have fucking angel tits. I swear to Merlin, she gets one nose down there and suddenly our rent is fucking paid.”

“And then we’d all be saved,” Draco sneers, turning to Daphne with an air of sarcasm in his voice. “Come on then, Daph, motorboat a fucking billionaire already.”

She’s too ill to respond to Draco’s comment, her retching ever-present in the background of their conversation. Theo rubs circles into her back, shushing her as mascara-stained tears drip from her eyes.

“The fuck is wrong with her?” Theo eyes Pansy. “Did you poison her ass while we were gone?”

Pansy emits a chilling laugh. “Yes, Theo, I poisoned her.” She narrows her eyes and smacks the brown-haired boy upside his head. “You fucker. She’s sick, because you all gave her ecstasy last night and can’t give her any more. Where the fuck did you even get it? She’s been like this for hours.”

Blaise looks sheepishly to the floor, his face an immediate mixture of guilt and embarrassment. “It’s all we could afford, Pansy. You really think we can buy pure? Even your stripper money can’t cover that.”

“So you’re telling me you gave Daphne…” Pansy trails off.

“I have no idea what it was cut with, Pans.”

Pansy groans, her head tilting backwards. Blaise was always buying their drugs cut with Merlin knows what. They couldn’t afford anything purer. Though fun while it lasted, the night usually ended with one of them violently ill and manic. 

“The three of you share one brain cell. Honestly,” she shakes her head, her eyes resting on her sick friend. “Deal with her. I’m going for cigarettes.”

She pulls a dirty sweatshirt onto her body, disappearing through the front door. The cold is a welcome sensation, chilling her to the bone as she moves. The liquor store isn’t very close, but she chooses to walk anyway. It’s one of the only times she gets to be alone.

She allows her mind to wander. She thinks about Draco’s winnings, mentally calculating how long it will last. She wants more. More alcohol, more drugs, more mind-numbing substances. She knows what she’ll have to do to get it. Her tongue swipes over her bottom teeth and she bites her lip, waiting for the familiar twinge of blood to hit her taste buds. It’ll be worth it, she reminds herself. Worth it when Daphne is no longer vomiting from the effects of bath salts. Worth it when they aren’t facing eviction every month. Worth it when she can close her eyes at night, knowing exactly where she’ll be in the morning.

The fluorescent lights of the shop burn her eyes. She strolls up and down the aisles, choosing a handful of Chocolate Frogs, Acid Pops, and Fizzing Whizbees and stuffing them into her pocket. As she reaches the front counter, a young wizard with dark curly hair watches her expectantly.

“Pack of Pasteles,” she tosses a handful of sickles onto the counter. The wizard raises his eyebrows at her, before lifting a pack of cigarettes off the rack behind him and sliding it across the checkstand. She takes it, pulling off the plastic wrapping and sticking a cigarette between her teeth.

Pansy turns to leave, but something catches her focus. A small, beat-up newspaper rack stands between her and the door. She usually avoids reading the Daily Prophet; there was never anything good in there about her or her family. But as her eyes land on the faded copies, her pulse quickens.

She hadn’t gotten the Dark Mark during the war. None of them had. Their roles were different; they needed to blend in. To be inconspicuous. But her parents had been branded, and she’d never forgive them for it. They were the reason she foraged for money in the hands of dirty wizards. They’d gone down, and taken her with them.

A headline catches her eye. She picks up a copy from the stand. 

Daily Prophet, July 10 2000

The Devil’s Vault: Wizengamot Finally Reaches Decision on Death Eater Case

She turns the page, her eyes darting across the paper as she reads.

After two years of deliberation, the Wizangemot has finally rendered a decision on the fortunes involved in the infamous Death Eater Hearings. The fortunes, once belonging to high-society pureblood families including the Malfoys, Notts, Parkinsons, Flints, and Yaxleys have been ordered to reside in Gringotts Bank, in what is being dubbed ‘The Devil’s Vault.’

The money will remain in the bank for the next five years, under the control of the Department of Wizarding Commerce, headed by Gloria Fingle. If the owners are still imprisoned in Azkaban at the end of the period, the money will be distributed into the Ministry of Magic’s fund for Wizarding Rehabilitation.

On the decision to hold the money for a grace period, Arielle Wood, speaker for the Wizengamot, explained: ‘There was fierce debate on whether or not the money should be donated right away. In the end, we decided a grace period would suit both sides of the argument.’


	5. IV

“Those motherfuckers.”

Theo tosses the newspaper to the floor, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. We’re out here doing everything we can to get by, and they’re holding our trust funds in the palms of their fucking hands.”

“It could be worse,” Daphne reassures him. “They’re waiting. At least it’s not lost forever.” But even her intonation doesn’t sound like she’s convinced. It sounds more like she’s hoping speaking it out loud will make it true. But it won’t, and she knows that.

“It’s a good thing you’re hot, Daph,” Theo shoots back. “Because you’re the dumbest bitch I’ve ever fucking met.” The blonde furrows her eyebrows into a scowl, diverting her attention instead to the dirt underneath her fingernails. Pansy places her hand on Daphne’s thigh.

“We’re never getting that fucking money back,” Draco sneers. “I don’t know about you, Daph, but do you really think Daddy Malfoy is getting out of prison anytime soon? Honestly, they should’ve thrown his ass to the dementors when they had the chance.”

Daphne rests her head on her friend’s shoulder, the smoke of Pansy’s cigarette wafting into her nostrils and alighting her senses. Pansy keeps her grip strong. She hates it when Daphne is upset. It’s the only time she ever feels even remotely maternal.

But there isn’t time to argue. They’re expected at the club any minute. Pansy downs her glass of Firewhiskey and takes one last draw from her cigarette before passing it to Blaise. She never Apparates with one in her mouth. She learned the hard way after nearly choking to death on the ashes.

Daphne begrudgingly gets to her feet, clearly still disgruntled by Theo’s earlier comment. She shoots him one more nasty look before sliding her coat around her shoulders. Her hand brushes against the pocket, feeling for the thin outline of her wand. She always has it strapped to her body when she dances. Just in case.

The club is on the other side of London, but Pansy and Daphne materialize in the back alley only seconds later. Pansy touches the tip of her wand to the lock on the door, watching as it springs open to reveal a smattering of other dancers getting ready. The loud music from the lounge booms into their ears.

Pansy takes a seat in front of the dirty mirror, gazing at the reflection that looks back. Her black hair is shorter than it had been in school, the ends just barely meeting the point of her chin. The bangs adorning her forehead are ragged and messy. Her eyes brush over the curve of her jaw, the flatness of her nose, the cut on the corner of her lip. She wonders whether she’ll look the same after tonight. If the change will only be internal.

She isn’t performing this evening. Instead, Daphne and a handful of other dancers will work the poles. She’ll spend the shift traipsing around the lounge, offering her services to interested wizards with pockets that bulge full of galleons. And she knows she’ll need to take it a step further, too.

Pansy takes a deep breath, admiring her final appearance, before stepping towards the door. She winks at Daphne and disappears into the dark hallway of the club.

The lounge is busy tonight, busier than normal. She wonders what the occasion is. There’s the usual groupings of young wizards celebrating stag parties and older men looking for anything to keep them feeling young. She tries to steer clear of them. Everyone knows the trouble starts and ends with the perverts.

Other dancers move across the lounge with her, flashing their breasts and coy smiles at men whose heads turn to catch a better view. Pansy admires their ease. She’d always been better on the stage than on someone’s lap. She liked to perform, liked the cheers and hoots that filled her ears as she grinded her hips against the metal. She didn’t like the intimate silence that came with one-on-one dances. It made her skin crawl.

She spots her target. He’s sitting in the back of the lounge, a cigarette perched between his lips, twirling his wand with his fingers. He looks strange, out of place. His tie is undone, his shirt wrinkled. Pansy can tell he has money. She doesn’t need to be close to recognize that his jacket is cashmere.

Pansy slinks over. Her fingers reach out for his cigarette, pulling it from between his pink lips and placing it into her mouth. He chuckles, revealing a row of blinding white teeth. He pats his upper thighs and she swings a leg over them, straddling him.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing working here?” He asks, his hand moving to caress her ass. She sucks in smoke from the cigarette, puffing it out in rings into his face. He isn’t unattractive: blonde curls adorn the sides of his cheekbones, contrasting with the darks of his eyes. But he’s here, with her. And that makes Pansy respect him a little bit less.

“Trying to pay my rent,” she places her lips on his neck and begins to suck. She has no reason to lie; she knows men like him love to help pretty girls like her. It makes them feel needed, masculine. “Any chance you can help me out?”

The man closes his eyes and tilts back his head, emitting a small groan as Pansy continues to attack the skin of his neck. His hands roam her body, stopping to caress her breasts. She can feel his erection growing harder beneath her weight.

Pansy pushes herself up off of him, her eyes trailing down his chest. She extends an arm, a ruthless smile forming on her face. The man scoffs.

“You’re the devil,” he laughs, shaking his head. His eyes feast on her petite figure, barely clothed in lace and leather. He pictures himself ripping it off and bending her over, fucking her until she can’t walk. He wants to break her. To make her belong to him.

“Am I?” Pansy asks coyly. “Why don’t you find out?’

He leaps to his feet, clasping her hand in his. She leads him through the lounge and down the dimly-lit hallway, pausing outside one of the wooden doors. She takes a deep breath.


	6. V

His mouth finds hers.

The room is bathed in candlelight, velvet runners lining the walls. She pushes him towards the padded bench as their gasps and moans fill the air. He falls back into a sitting position and leans his head back against the wall, his face twisted with pleasure. Pansy straddles him once more, pressing his nose to the spot between her breasts. Her hips grind against him.

Her hands trail down his chest as she kneels on the ground in front of him. Her fingers find the clasp of his belt, shaking as she unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down his hips. His erection is rock hard, struggling to get free from the fabric of his boxers. She leans in, placing a kiss on the outline of his cock, her fingers tugging at the elastic. His erection springs up, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

Pansy wastes no time. Her tongue licks a wet stripe along the side of his shaft before swirling around his head. She rubs him with her left hand, the other gripping bruises into his thigh. She hears his breath grow shallow, waiting, teasing before taking him all the way into her throat. She bobs her head up and down, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. He moans with pleasure.

She watches as he opens his eyes, taking in the sight of Pansy working away on him. He reaches for her neck, his fingers applying pressure to the sides of her throat. She takes it as encouragement, picking up her pace. As she looks up once more to meet his gaze, she notices something is wrong. His eyes are no longer looking at her with pleasure. Instead, he looks cold. Sadistic. Frightening.

**

Pansy moves to pull away, but it’s too late. The grip around her throat tightens and the man stands up, pulling her to her feet and shoving her face up against the velvet lining the wall. She tries to grab his hand, to push him away, but he grabs her arm with his free hand and pins it behind her back. She screams.

“Get the fuck off of me!”

He doesn’t listen. He releases his grip on her throat, his fingers trailing to the lace fabric hugging her hips. She whines, struggling to get free from his grip. He leans in, his breath hot on her neck, and whispers into her ear.

“You stupid fucking cunt.”

With one swift movement, he pulls the fabric to the side and pushes himself into her. Pansy shrieks, her eyes widening with terror. He places his free hand over her mouth, his strength forcing her still as he pumps in and out of her body. Her mind goes black, the adrenaline coursing through her veins as her instincts take over. She opens her mouth and bites the palm of his hand as hard as she possibly can.

He yelps in pain and loosens his grip. She’s ready for it. As soon as the tightness on her arms subsides, she tilts her head forward until her chin is touching her chest, and throws it back.

She hears the crack of his nose, the stream of obscenities uttering from his mouth. She turns to face him and sees his hands cradling his face, blood streaming from between his fingers. It’s not enough for her. She lunges towards him, cocks her arm back and swings.

**

Pansy rushes from the room, feeling only the slightest bit of relief when her hand makes contact with the dressing room door. She’s all too grateful that it’s empty. Her body collapses into a chair by the mirror, her eyes making contact with the reflection. She was wrong. She doesn’t look the same. Her makeup is smeared across her cheeks, but worst of all, she can see the indignation burning in her eyes. The shame. The embarrassment.

She can’t stand to look at herself. She throws her fist through the mirror, watching as the glass shatters onto the counter. Her knuckles begin to ooze blood. She screams once, twice. As loud as she can. She knows nobody will hear her back here. 

She brings her knuckles to her mouth and sucks, savoring the sweet taste of her blood. It reminds her that she’s alive. Real. That she’s still a person, no matter what god-awful things she has to do. And then she remembers. 

He never fucking paid her.

Pansy gets to her feet and exits the dressing room, her heart pounding in her chest as she rounds the corner to the lounge. She sees him back in his corner, his nose returned to its normal position and the blood gone. She increases her pace, lest he decides to bolt before she can confront him. But his eyes meet hers, and he doesn’t move. He smirks.

“Fucking pay me,” she spits.

He bites his lip and emits a cold, vicious laugh. Pansy’s pulse is racing, the blood pounding in her ears. “Why should I pay you?” He asks, his fingers bringing another cigarette to his lips. “You filthy slut. You’re not worth anything.”

She doesn’t even hesitate. Her fist makes contact with his face once again, and she pulls him to the floor by the collar of his shirt. She punches until she can’t recognize him anymore, before standing up and stomping onto his chest with her black high-heel. She can hear his ribs crack. She welcomes the sound. It means she’s won.

“Venus! Get the fuck away from him!” The witch with the eyebrow piercing grips Pansy’s arm, sharply pulling her backwards. Pansy looks around and realizes she’s attracted a bit of a crowd. Horrified patrons gawk at her from their positions around the room. She notices Daphne standing in the back, a look of concern and fear displayed across her face.

The witch helps the man to his feet, apologizing profusely before turning to Pansy. The anger in her eyes is unmissable. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Beating on a customer, you stupid bitch.”

“He didn’t pay me,” Pansy growls. She omits the assault. She doesn’t want anyone at the club to pity her. The idea of it sends a chill down her spine.

“I don’t give a fuck,” the witch replies, her voice echoing through the room. “You’re done. Get the fuck out of here, and don’t come back.” She flashes Pansy one more glare before turning back to the man and offering even more apologies. Pansy scoffs, fully aware of the many sets of eyes on her. She doesn’t want them to see her bothered.

Daphne follows her into the dressing room, watching anxiously as Pansy stuffs her costumes into her bag, muttering obscenities under her breath. She rips off her false lashes and tosses them into the trash, trying her best to ignore the weight sitting in her stomach. But it’s no use. She collapses back into the chair, unable to keep the sobs from escaping her lips.

“Pans, what happened?” Daphne asks softly, her fingers wiping the tears from Pansy’s face. “Shh, it’ll be okay. Don’t cry.”

“He raped me, Daph,” Pansy cries. “And he didn’t pay me for it.”

Daphne’s eyes widen as she flings her arms around her friend, pressing Pansy’s head into her chest. She tries to hide the horror forming on her face, but she can’t. She doesn’t want Pansy to see her upset. She knows that her friend does everything she can to protect the two of them, at home, in the club, in the bars. A silent tear rolls down her cheek.

Just like Pansy, she doesn’t have anybody else. She curses her parents under her breath for getting caught, for getting sent to Azkaban. For getting their fortunes confiscated. She hates them for what they forced her and her friends to do to survive.

And she hates her sister, Astoria. She hates her for abandoning her, for switching sides in the war and coming out unscathed. She hates her for her stupid fucking Ministry job and her asshole husband and her useless fucking children. She hates her for never trying to help, not even once. 

Daphne presses a kiss into the top of Pansy’s head, rubbing circles into her back and trying her best to comfort her friend. She knows the torment; she goes through it almost every evening in those horrible rooms. But she knows they don’t have any other options. So she does the only thing she can. She holds her crying friend, and wills the pain to go away.


	7. VI

Blaise kneels in front of the coffee table, his hands fumbling with the plastic dime bag. He tips it sideways, allowing a stream of white powder to pile on the wooden surface. Using his index finger, he pushes the grains into one straight line and takes a deep breath. He utters a small prayer.

Covering his left nostril with his thumb, Blaise leans his face forward, sucking the powder up into his sinuses. He furrows his brow, waiting for the pressure in his head to dispel, but it doesn’t. Instead, he feels his stomach lurch and he vomits onto the floor next to him. He closes his eyes and waits for the pain to subside.

He knows it’s laced. He buys it that way on purpose. He craves something stronger than what he gets for everybody else. This is his and his only. He never shares it with the rest of his friends. He’s worried that if he does, he’ll be the one responsible for their deaths. And the only death he wishes to be responsible for is his own.

Blaise pulls himself to his feet, vanishing the pile of vomit with a flick of his wand. He steps over the passed-out figure of Theo and pulls open the front door, locking it behind him. He descends the steps to the street, eyeing his surroundings cautiously. When the coast is clear, he grips his wand in his right hand and utters a few words. Suddenly, he’s sucked away.

The outside of a large, luxurious house materializes into sight. The brick facade is lined with rose bushes; great, glass windows adorn either side of the front door. Blaise cracks his neck, the cocaine heightening his senses, and prepares himself. He steps forward and knocks on the door.

An older woman answers. She’s dressed in a violet gown, cinched around her waist with a black belt. Her hair is piled atop her head and smoothed back. She eyes Blaise with distaste.

“What, Blaise?” She sighs. She doesn’t move from the doorway, doesn’t allow him to come inside. She leans her shoulder on the frame, arms crossing in front of her chest. She purses her lips as if she’s preparing to scold him.

“I wanted to see you,” Blaise lies, his head craning around the woman and peering inside the house. “Can I come in? Can we talk?”

“I know what you want, and I can’t help you. You should go.” She moves to close the door, but Blaise shoots out an arm, stopping her. His hand makes contact with her skin, and she jolts. Her eyes narrow.

“Mum, please.” He looks at her with pleading eyes, and the woman’s expression softens ever so slightly. She moves slightly to the side, allowing him to pass by her. He follows her into a large entrance hall; the mahogany walls are decorated with large, life-like portraits of friends and relatives. His eyes linger on the crystal chandelier hovering over the spiral staircase, before he’s ushered to the left into a sitting room. The furniture is a deep maroon color, hints of gold glitter from the fireplace mantel. He takes a seat in a plush armchair. His mother watches him from across the room expectantly.

“How have you been?” He begins, but the words feel awkward coming out of his mouth. He doesn’t know how to talk to her, how to have a relationship with her. Even without the cocaine, he knows he wouldn’t be any less jumpy. The woman in front of him shares his eyes, his jawbone, but she feels like an utter stranger.

“Just get to the point, Blaise.” She hasn’t bothered to take a seat, as if she’s already planning to kick him out any moment. Her arms are crossed tightly in front of her chest. She’s a regal woman, even with a look of abhorrence written across her face. Blaise can’t help but cower in her presence, even though he’s a grown man. He never wants to cross her.

“You’ve read the paper, Mum,” he begins. “We’re really struggling. And they’re not getting any of that money any time soon.” Tears begin to form in the corner of his eyes. Whether from true emotion or just a part of a convincing act, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s struggling to keep himself from breaking down.

His mother fixes her gaze onto him, her eyes narrow, her lips pulled into a tight line. She isn’t the least bit fazed by her son’s tears. She only watches, waiting for him to continue.

“You should see what we have to do, Mum,” Blaise cries. “We barely make enough to cover our rent, and we can’t be late again. He’ll kick us out, and we won’t have anywhere else to go. You should see what the girls have to do. It’s so horrible.” He wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. His mother rolls her eyes, scoffing loudly at her son.

“Don’t lie to me,” she snaps. “I’m no fool. Look at how dilated your eyes are. You’re coked up right now, aren’t you?” She shakes her head. “You really think I’m going to give you money? Look at yourself!” Her voice booms throughout the room. Blaise watches as she turns on her heels, moving towards the sitting room door.

“Mum, wait.” He jumps to his feet, desperate to stop her before she disappears through the doorway. He wants her to care, needs her to care. But she never does.

“I’m sorry for you, Blaise. I’m sorry that you made the choice to fight for the wrong side. But I’m not sorry for where it left you. You want to be an adult? You made an adult decision, so now you have to live with the adult consequences.”

“But what about Theo, Mum? Or Draco? Or the girls? They’re just girls, Mum. Daphne’s only nineteen. I can’t help her. But you can, Mum. You can help us!” He was pleading now, his hand pressed against his forehead. He knew he was losing her interest.

“I never approved of Draco Malfoy,” his mother replies, a sneer forming on her face. “And those girls you live with? They’re whores, Blaise. Nothing more.” She opens the door of the sitting room to exit, but Blaise stops her. He reaches out and shuts it closed. His mother looks at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

“I have a trust fund,” he growls. “And you’re keeping it from me. You can’t do that. That’s my money, and I need it.”

“You lost every chance of that when you decided to fight in a war surrounding antiquated ideals,” his mother snaps. “I’m embarrassed of you, I’m embarrassed for you. Look where the war landed your so-called friends? Their parents are in prison, Blaise. Maybe if I thought you were sorry, if I thought you actually wanted to turn your life around. But I know you better than that. So you might as well call a lawyer, because you won’t get another sickle from me until my body is dead in the ground. And even then, the chances aren’t high.” She pries open the door and hurries out of the sitting room, slamming it behind her.

Blaise stares at the wood in front of him, anger bubbling in his chest. He lets out a yell and throws his fist against the wall, his knuckles cracking and popping as they make contact with the hard surface. He knows this was his last shot, and he fucking blew it. Just like he always does.

In some senses, he feels more sorry for himself than he does for his friends. His mother is alive and out of prison. She has money. But she makes the conscious choice every day not to help him, not to care for him, not to love him. He knows he made a mistake serving Voldemort. But he figured he was already being punished enough.

He shakes out his fist, straightens his back and prepares to Apparate back home. He doesn’t know what he’ll tell them. That it’s over. That there’s no more money. What with the betting going down and Pansy being fired from the club, things were not looking good. He wonders what would happen once the money stopped coming. He decides he’d rather not know.


	8. VII

“FUCK!”

Theo rolls over onto his back, sweat racing down his temples, his heart beating fast in his chest. He reaches for the box of cigarettes on the nightstand, placing one between his lips and lighting the tip. Sucking in the sweet smoke, he feels his head begin to swirl, his body still high on euphoria. In his mind, there is no better combination than a cigarette and an orgasm.

Pansy lays next to him, her black bangs matted to her forehead. She steadies her breath, her eyes glued to a spot on the ceiling. She allows herself to drift in and out of consciousness, her body in a state of total relaxation. She barely stirs as Theo leans down and plants a kiss on her forehead, before swinging his legs off the side of the bed and throwing on a t-shirt.

“I’ve gotta run, Pans,” he grunts. “Don’t move your pretty self, I want you waiting here for me when I get back, okay?” Pansy pulls the sheet up to cover her naked body, watching Theo dress through hooded eyes. His hands fumble with his belt before grabbing his sweater off the bed. He gives her one more kiss before disappearing out the door.

Pansy reaches for the box of cigarettes as well, taking one and lighting it between her teeth. She props herself up on one elbow, watching as the mesmerizing smoke makes patterns in the air. The sun shines in through the open window in the bedroom, the light warming her skin. The cigarette, the sunlight, the sex; it all makes her feel drowsy.

She’s distracted moments later by Daphne sneaking into the bedroom. The blonde is clad only in a white t-shirt and panties, her nipples visible through the light fabric. She pounces onto the bed as Pansy laughs, rolling into Theo’s empty spot. She reaches for Pansy’s cigarette.

“Good,” she laughs between puffs. “I thought he’d never leave.”

“He’s been taking his time, that’s for sure,” Pansy snorts. “But the game starts any minute, so off he’s gone.” She takes back the cigarette. There’s always extra in the box, but the girls prefer to share one. They always have.

“The club hasn’t been the same without you,” Daphne mumbles, readjusting her position so that her head is resting on Pansy’s chest. They’ve barely seen each other all week, what with Daphne picking up extra shifts and Pansy spending more and more time in the bedroom with Theo. “I don’t have any other friends there. It was always you, Pans.”

“Don’t worry,” Pansy shifts her head so that her lips are resting on the skin of Daphne’s forehead. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe we can find another club, and you can quit and we can work together again.”

“I’m worried about what will happen to us,” Daphne cries suddenly, her voice growing quieter, more afraid. “I never thought we’d ever be in this situation. And it’s only getting worse, every day. I’m worried I’m going to have to,” she pauses for a moment, her breath hitching. “Go all the way.”

“No, Daph, you won’t.” Pansy stretches her arm around Daphne’s shoulder, who cuddles up closer to her. She feels the anger bubble in her stomach at the very idea of it. She knows if it comes down to it, it’ll always be her. She’ll never let Daphne go down like that.

“The boys will figure it out,” she continues. “Draco will fight. He’ll win, like he always does. It won’t be like this forever, I promise.” She strokes Daphne’s blonde hair with her right hand, savoring the soft texture of the curls between her fingers.

Pansy can feel the tension growing in Daphne, the sadness forming beneath her surfaces. She wants to do anything she can to take that pain away, even just for a second. Extinguishing the butt of her cigarette, she flicks it to the floor of the bedroom, wrapping her other arm around the blonde, pulling her as close as she can.

“Do you remember,” she begins, her mind searching frantically for any pleasant memory that doesn’t have to do with money, or fighting, or stripping. “Back in Fifth Year, when we snuck to the top of the Astronomy Tower, and you made out with Blaise after two shots of Firewhiskey?”

She feels Daphne giggle, her chest shaking with laughter. “Yes,” Daphne replies. “I was such a lightweight back then. At least it was Blaise, and not Draco.”

“Now, that we can agree on,” Pansy snorts. “But you still are a lightweight, Daph. You’re not fooling anyone.” Daphne swats at her friend’s legs, her fingers stopping to swirl circles into the blankets hugging her skin. She groans in protest.

“What do you mean “that we can agree on?” You were so completely, disgustingly in love with Draco, don’t lie to me. Remember the Yule Ball? I know neither of you got sleep after that night. Theo told us all about it.”

“He has a big mouth, doesn’t he?” Pansy scoffs playfully. “But no, we never slept together. The Yule Ball was fun, but we went as friends. Besides, he wasn’t the one I fancied.” She bites her lip, her eyes resting lovingly on the crown of Daphne’s head.

“That’s fair. You and Theo were always a match made in Heaven,” Daphne continues drawing circles onto the blankets, her fingers tracing the lengths of Pansy’s legs. “He’s such an ass, but he’d do anything for you, you know?”

“Right,” Pansy replies, her eyes darting to the ceiling. “Yes, Theo. I fancied him. I still do.” Her voice quavers ever so slightly. Not enough for Daphne to notice it, but enough for Pansy to realize just how unconvinced she is. She sighs.

“I wish everything was still as simple as that. When all we had to worry about was what Gryffindor we’d push in the hallway on the way to Potions.”

“Or how drunk we’d have to get Draco before he sent his father an owl asking for coke money!” Daphne chimes in, her small body shaking with laughter. “I don’t think I paid for a single drug during my entire time at Hogwarts.”

“Remember the bets?” Pansy interrupts, as if an idea has sprung into her mind. “With the Quidditch team? Do you remember that time Marcus had to streak through the Great Hall?”

“Oh Merlin, I remember when Graham had to ask Madam Pomfrey for help quenching his sexual habits,” Daphne turns her head to face Pansy, their eyes meeting. “You’re my very best friend. Do you know that?”

“I do,” Pansy replies. “With all of my heart, Daph. It’ll always be you and me. Until the end of time, okay?” She smiles.

“Until the end of time.”


	9. VIII

Theo perches on the edge of his seat, his brown eyes scanning the room around him. He’s careful not to display any emotion. Instead, he simply looks. Watches. Observes. Waits for even the slightest tell from one of his many opponents. His fingers caress the smooth surface of the playing cards. He bites his lip.

He doesn’t fight as much. Not if he can help it. Usually, the watchers bet on him because they know he’ll lose. He’s tall, but he’s stocky. He only ever wins by pure chance. He thinks back to a conversation he had after the last time he stood in the warehouse, fists cocked.

“You’ve got to stop,” Pansy groans, her hand tending to his bruised knuckles. “We can’t afford it. That was our bump money. Next, it’ll be the rent.” She places a small kiss on the tip of his nose. “You either start winning, or you find something else to do.”

Pansy had been right. He wasn’t good at fighting, not like Draco, or even Blaise. But he was good at poker. He had learned back in school, one Christmas break before everything went to shit. His father had taught him, using Chocolate Frogs as chips and betting his son’s allowance. Theo loved it. It was one of the only good memories he had with him.

He had a natural talent for the game. He was sly and cunning, just as he had been in school. He could read faces, could sense even the slightest shift in an opponent’s demeanor. He very rarely lost. But the games were becoming harder and harder to come by. London’s wizarding poker circle had been run mainly by Death Eaters, most of whom were now locked in Azkaban. Theo was lucky if he could scrap a few people together.

It was the same as Draco’s fights. The more he won, the less people he was able to convince to play with him. He knew that it wasn’t going to be substantial for much longer, but he was determined to get every last sickle he could out of it. He fumbles a cigarette between his lips, drawing in the fragrant smoke, eyes fixated on the other men around the table. The pile of coins in the center has grown to an impressive size. He watches it hungrily.

“I’ll raise,” a grey-haired wizard sporting face tattoos grunts. He places ten more galleons into the pile, his eyes sweeping across the table. Two wizards fold their cards; one kicks the leg of his chair out of frustration. Theo’s in too deep. If he folds now, he’ll be losing too much. But he’s confident, cocky even. He knows that he won’t lose. He never does.

He scratches his wrist with his right hand, watching as the other wizards make their bets. When the circle reaches him, he raises the amount once again, watching victoriously as the pile continues to grow. After a final round of betting, the only two players left are Theo and the grey-haired wizard. The wizard places his cards on the table, a smirk forming at the corners of his lips.

“Full house.”

There’s a collective tittering across the table, eyes turning to Theo. He waits a moment, sucking his tongue between his cheeks. He breaks out into a vicious smile, flipping his cards over onto the table.

“Royal flush.”

Five cards lay on the table in front of him. A ten, jack, king, queen, and ace. All spades. He leans back, his fingers toying with the cigarette between his lips. The wizard across from him scowls.

“Hey, no hard feelings, man,” Theo chuckles. “You’ll just have to do better next time.” The players around the table get to their feet. The man starts to move towards him, but another wizard grabs his arm, whisking him to the side.

“He’s not worth it, Arnie,” Theo hears the other wizard say. He ignores them, watching as the rest of the table disperses. Some cop Theo on the shoulder, others simply ignore him. Theo slides the pile of galleons and sickles towards him, depositing it into the cloth bag tied to his belt loop. 

He makes his way over to the bar, extracting two sickles from his bag to order a glass of Firewhiskey. He takes a seat on one of the barstools, his elbows resting against the wooden surface in front of him. The alcohol tastes hot and sweet. He loves the way it burns when it goes down.

He couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride. He’d done it. He’d won the game, he’d gotten them enough money to afford rent and then some. He couldn’t wait to see their faces once he threw down the bag of money, to fuck Pansy that very evening, losing himself in the sounds of her moans and pleas. Even the thought of it sent electricity down to his groin.

He downs the rest of his whiskey, double-checking the bag is tied securely to his belt, before disappearing out of the club and into the alley. He wraps his hand around his wand, preparing himself to Apparete, when he feels something grab the back of his jacket. He whips around, finding himself face to face with Arnie.

“The fuck, man?” Theo asks, shoving Arnie. “Get off of me.”

But Arnie doesn’t listen. In a second, he’s thrown a punch that lands straight on Theo’s jaw, forcing him to stumble backwards. He touches the throbbing muscles of his face, the anger and confusion melting into pure adrenaline. He lunges towards the wizard, but Arnie grabs him and shoves him to the side. Theo’s back hits the stone wall of the building behind him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Theo shouts, raising his hands to cover his face as Arnie cocks his fists. “Back off!”

The grey-haired wizard punches him again, this time in the stomach. Theo doubles over, gasping for breath, as Arnie pins him up against the wall. He clasps his fingers around Theo’s throat, pressing deeply into the skin, watching victoriously as the boy struggles for air. Theo claws at his hands, desperate to escape from his grip, but Arnie only tilts back his head and laughs.

“I know who you are, boy,” Arnie growls, his voice low in Theo’s ear. “Your daddy owes me a hell of a lot of money. And if you think I’m going to let you walk out of here with my hard-earned galleons, you’ve got a bad thing coming to you.”

“Fuck, man, I don’t know what my dad did to you!” Theo protests, his hands finally wrenching Arnie’s grip away. “Just leave me the fuck alone! My dad’s in prison, man! Don’t fucking worry about it!”

But Arnie doesn’t listen. Instead, he throws Theo to the ground, pinning him down with his weight as he lands punch after punch on Theo’s body. The boy writhes in agony, his hands doing their best to shield his face, but to not much avail. He feels his nose spray blood down his chin, his eyes swelling with the pain.

He feels Arnie back off slightly, but he doesn’t dare lift his head. He feels something tugging on him, but as he opens his eyes, his face is immediately met with the bottom of Arnie’s boot. The older wizard adds one more kick for good measure, before hocking a loogie, which lands in Theo’s hair. He turns around, hurrying through the alley and out of sight, leaving Theo alone and huddled in a ball. He waits for Arnie to disappear completely before pushing himself up, his eyes immediately darting to his waist. Oh, fuck.

He forces himself into a seated position, his back leaning against the wall of the building. He cradles his head in his hands, his mind racing. He doesn’t worry about his bleeding nose or his cracked ribs, he doesn’t even feel the pain. All he can think about is the missing money bag that was once clasped to his belt loop. He bites his lip. It was rent money. He wasn’t supposed to lose it.

His fingertips press into the sides of his skull, and he lets out a sob. The tears drip down his cheeks, mixing with the blood and spit. He watches the amber-colored liquid pool on the ground, and he feels nothing but shame. He can’t stand to consider what his father would think about him, if he could see him now. Crying in the back alley of a poker club. He knows what his father would say. Pussy.

Theo grips his wand, pushing himself up to his feet. He throws his head back and shouts as loud as he can into the night sky. His yells mix with his sobs, and he’s thankful for once that this area of town is undetected by Muggles. He’s had enough shame for one night. He lets out one last, heaving cry, before readjusting his grip on his wand and Apparating away.


	10. IX

“It’s not enough.”

Blaise counts and double-counts the pile of coins in front of him, a frantic expression appearing on his face. He’s sorted the pile into knuts, sickles, and galleons, making sure to carefully mark down each one on the sheet of parchment. But he’s added it up three times now. The number hasn’t changed.

“How much are we supposed to pay?” Daphne asks, her eyes flitting between the money and the parchment, as if she’s willing the number to suddenly increase. But it doesn’t. They’re still too short to afford their rent payment. 

“2,600,” Blaise groans. “We have 1,000. Rent’s due next week, I don’t know where we’re going to get that money.” He reaches for his glass and throws the liquid down his throat without stopping to savor the taste. He doesn’t care about the experience right now. He just wants to take the edge off.

“We had more,” Pansy sneers from her seat on the windowsill. “We had a lot more. What the fuck happened?” Her grasp on the glass bong never loosens. She holds onto it for dear life.

“It’s gone,” Theo grunts, his eyes not looking up from the frayed holes in his jeans.

“You mean you fucking lost it,” Pansy spits, rolling her eyes. “You stupid fucker. Now what the fuck are we going to do?” Her gaze rests on Draco, who shakes his head. None of them know how to fix this. If they did, they wouldn’t still be in this apartment.

Theo whips his head around, his eyes landing on Pansy. “Maybe if you hadn’t gotten your whore ass thrown out of the club, we wouldn’t have to worry,” he retorts. She swings her hand, gearing up to slap him, but he catches her wrist and throws it back to her. She doesn’t try again.

“There’s no point in arguing,” Blaise utters. “The fact of the matter is, we don’t have enough. And if we don’t pay up, we’re going to get kicked out. Partridge already hates us, there’s no way he’s going to let this slide.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Theo scoffs. “I’m not going back to that fucking poker club, not with that fucker still hanging around. What about your mum, Blaise?”

“I visited her,” Blaise averts his gaze, his mind lingering on the earlier interaction. “She cut me off. So much for motherly love.” He bites his lip, his fingers returning to the piles of money. He doesn’t want to hash out the details with them. He knows they wouldn’t understand.

“I’ve been trying to pick up extra shifts,” Daphne adds. “But the number of patrons has dropped since Pansy got fired. They’re worried they’re gonna get the shit kicked out of them, too.” She shoots Pansy a smile, and the dark-haired girl sticks out her tongue in response.

“We need more than that,” Blaise begins. “You can’t make 1,600 in a week, even if you did get a billionaire’s nose in your tits. Draco, mate, it’s gotta be you. You’re gonna have to go big.” His focus lands on the platinum-blonde boy leaning against the kitchen door frame.

Draco scoffs, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The cigarette in his mouth billows smoke into his face. He shakes his head.

“For that amount of money? I’ll have to kill someone.” He shifts his weight slightly. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“You might not have a choice,” Blaise retorts. “Got any other bright ideas? Sorry, mate, I can’t think of any other way to get 1,600 in a few days. But by all means, I’m all ears.” 

“If I lose, we’re fucked,” Draco utters.

“Well, if you don’t do it at all, we’re still fucked,” Blaise shoots back. “Find the men, up the bets. Tell ‘em you’ll do whatever you want. Merlin knows we need it.” 

“You’ll be fine, Draco,” Daphne coos, her blonde hair tied messily behind her ears. She looks perpetually tired, the dark bags underneath her eyes more and more prominent. Pansy wonders what she’s going through at the club. She doesn’t ask, but she can tell it isn’t good. She wants to get her out of there.

“Fine,” Draco grumbles. “But I don’t want any bitching from any of you if I lose. It’s hell enough having to listen to you gripe about money every bloody day.” He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and tosses it out the open window. 

“You won’t lose, mate,” Blaise reassures. “I’ll kill you myself if you do.”

-

Draco stands once again in the warehouse, his body coursing with adrenaline. The crowd has grown; the news about the high-stakes fight has traveled quickly. They know it will get bloody. They know neither Draco nor his opponent will back down, not with that amount of money on the line. Nobody in their right mind would ever walk away from that.

He stretches out his arms, cracking his knuckles and neck. He needs to be loose, agile. The man he’s fighting is bigger than he is, both in height and build. He reminds Draco of the students from Durmstrang, back in Fourth Year. The thought doesn’t comfort him in the slightest.

Draco likes fighting, he always has. He’s never minded the minor injuries he sustains when beating his opponent to a pulp. He barely feels them, and when he does, they only serve as a reminder that he’s still alive. He never has trouble finding the proper aggression to fight, unlike Blaise and Theo. All he has to do is close his eyes and remember.

The crowd begins to back away as the seedy-looking wizard steps into the center of the room, a whistle balanced between his teeth. He utters a few words to the two men, but Draco doesn’t pay attention. His mind is focused on the money. He searches his brain for his angriest memories, hoping for anything that will fire him up. He draws a picture of his father and his fists clench. He’s ready.

At the sound of the whistle, Draco throws a punch. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t wait to see what his opponent will do. This isn’t boxing. He’s fighting for the money that will determine whether his friends will become homeless or not. He doesn’t care about playing it smart, about strategy. He wants to get his opponent down as soon as possible.

And for the first half of the fight, he does just that. He sustains a few hits to his cheek and jaw, wincing slightly as he feels dark bruises begin to form. But he has the upper hand. He’s far less injured than his opponent, having already broken his nose and forced out several teeth. He’s confident, but he knows he still has a ways to go. He knows his opponent won’t tap out until he’s an inch from death.

He throws another punch with such force that his opponent stumbles backwards, his back hitting the concrete floor of the warehouse. Draco wipes his bleeding nose with the back of his hand, his eyes taking a moment to survey the room. He sees the watchers sitting with bated breath, their eyes tracking every move he makes. He sees Blaise and Theo cheering him on from the corner, shouting crude remarks at his opponent. And then, he sees her.

He thinks his eyes are tricking him, but as he squints and focuses, he realizes it’s real. Standing on the other side of the dirty glass window, watching in on him with a look of absolute horror and disgust on her face, is none other than Hermione Granger. His eyes glow red at the sight of her, at her horribly messy curls and taunting, holier-than-thou expression. The fire builds back up in his chest, the adrenaline coursing only further, and he knows he can win this. He’s gotten it. The motivation. The only thing in this world that makes him angrier than his father.

But it’s too late. The second his eyes detach from hers, he feels a sharp punch make contact with the side of his skull, and his entire world goes black.


	11. X

“You stupid fucking idiot! I’ll kill you!”

Draco sits in the corner of the living room, a towel pressed tightly to his bloodied scalp. The red seeps into his blonde hair, staining it to the roots. He has a permanent scowl written across his face, watching intently as Theo paces back and forth in front of him, a string of obscenities erupting from his lips.

“What, did you just fucking forget what you were doing? You get a little bored mid-fight? Look at what you’ve fucking done!” He lunges towards Draco, but Blaise grabs him and yanks him back. They’d been arguing since the second they returned from the warehouse.

“Shut the fuck up, Theo,” Draco growls. “Are we gonna forget you lost all our money getting your ass beat by some fucker? It’s your bloody fault I even had to fight him.” There’s a pounding ache in his head from where the man punched him, and he can feel a concussion start to set in. He tries to focus on Theo’s twisted expression, but his mind keeps trailing back to the girl in the window. What the fuck was she doing there?

“Relax,” Blaise warns. “It’s over. There’s nothing we can do now.” Hours earlier, he had handed over a bag full of every little bit of money they owned. There really was nothing left. It had all gone away as soon as Draco blacked out.

“What are we going to do?” Daphne whines from her spot on the couch. “We can’t live on the streets! What about the Manor? Can’t we go there?”

Draco winces at the reference of his former home. “I’d rather live on the streets then go back there. You know this, Daph. Don’t ask me again.” His eyes flash with anger. He doesn’t want to go back, he really doesn’t. Even if it means forcing his friends to sleep in the alleyways of London. Because even with his parents locked in Azkaban, he can’t scour the memories he has there. Of sitting across a table from Voldemort, of watching Hermione Granger write under his aunt’s torture, of his mother. Of years growing up unwanted and unloved.

“Don’t push him, Daph,” Blaise warns. He’s heard the argument too many times to know it never ends well. Draco doesn’t like to be pressed. Especially when it comes to the Malfoy family affairs.

“I’m going to fucking kill Shacklebolt,” Theo shouts. “Who the fuck does the Ministry think they are? Taking our fucking money like that. They’d love to see us now, wouldn’t they! Look at us, look at the poor, disgraced Death Eater spawn! They can’t even afford their motherfucking rent!” He lets out a chilling laugh, his arms outstretched towards the ceiling. 

“Merlin knows how much I’d love to shove my dick down the Wizengamot’s throats,” Draco sneers. “I’d mouth-fuck them so hard my cum shoots out their assholes.” He chuckles, gaining an eye-roll from Theo, who swats playfully at his leg.

“You know, you’ve got a point,” Pansy says, uncrossing her legs from the windowsill and getting to her feet. “It’s our fucking money. They can’t hold onto it.”

“New here, Pans? They’re the fucking Wizengamot. They can keep whatever they want, for as long as they fucking like,” Theo grabs the girl around her waist and pulls her closer to him, watching as she stumbles over her feet. He plants a rough kiss between her bangs, but she shoves him off.

“I’m serious,” Pansy continues. “It’s fucking bullshit. Who are they to take from us, when we didn’t even do anything fucking wrong? They didn’t find us guilty enough to throw us in prison! Why the fuck are we still being punished? We’ve got to do something about it!”

“The fuck are we supposed to do about it?” Draco asks, pressing the towel even harder to his bleeding face. “Get over yourself. It’s over. We lost.”

A sadistic smirk comes over Pansy’s face, garnering the attention of the room. She bites her lip, her eyes lighting up. Theo eyes her cautiously, knowing that her expression can’t be the source of anything good. He’s known her too long to suspect otherwise.

“Pansy,” he warns. “What’s in your brain?”

She only widens her smile, a look of pure hunger forming behind her irises. “Let’s fucking rob it back.”

Blaise laughs and scoffs, shaking his head at himself for believing she might have an actual idea worth sharing. “You’ve fucking lost it, Pans.”

“I’m serious!” She strides across the room, perching herself dramatically on the arm of the couch. “Think about it, how fucking perfect would it be for us to pull off a fucking robbery after the disgrace of our parents? Can you imagine the faces of the Ministry? I can’t imagine anything sweeter!”

Daphne cracks a smile, her eyes making contact with Pansy’s. She can sense the flame building in her friend. “I love the idea. Let’s fucking do it.”

“You’re both idiots,” Draco sneers. “You know how hard it is to get into Gringotts, especially after the war? And even if we did, you have no idea which vault is the right one. You’ll be dead before you even get close to it.”

“Actually,” Pansy giggles. “I don’t think it will be very hard at all.” She leaps up from the couch and crosses back to the windowsill, rummaging around in her purse. Her friends watch her with bated breath as she skips back, grasping a copy of the Daily Prophet. She tosses it onto the coffee table. “There, see?”

The group leans in, surveying the paper in front of them. For a moment, nobody says a word. Pansy watches with glee as the words from the paper seep into her friends’ brains, their meaning becoming fully understood.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Theo utters. Pansy only nods, her giddy smile wide on her face. She slings an arm around Daphne, who scoffs in amazement.

“Alright then,” Theo murmurs, his hands snaking around Pansy’s waist. “Let’s fucking do it.”

Daily Prophet, July 30 2000

Hermione Granger Named Head of Department of Wizarding Commerce, Ministry of Magic


	12. Part Two: I

Hermione Granger paces back and forth in her office, her eyes fixated on the wooden door in front of her. She reverts to her traditional nervous tendencies; checking the clock on the wall, smoothing out the front of her skirt, and biting the loose skin from the sides of her nails. She feels her stomach twist into a knot, tightening until she’s sure her organs will pop.

Her mind is abuzz with anxiety. She knows that at any moment now, the Wizengamot will render a verdict regarding the fortunes of the Dark Lord’s 10, the name the Ministry has kindly dubbed the infamous families that now reside in Azkaban for their crimes during the war. The court had bounced back and forth deliberating for the past two years before coming to a conclusion. This verdict, whatever it may be, was big news.

The verdict was especially pertinent to Hermione. Her job in the Department of Wizarding Commerce handles all monetary situations in Wizarding Britain, including the management of Gringotts Bank and of course, the fortunes of the Dark Lord’s 10. She’s hoping, praying that the money will be donated. She’d already bothered the Head of her department, Gloria Fingle, countless times regarding the matter. She can think of a million ways that money could be used to better the Ministry and the wizarding community.

She doesn’t feel bad about the fortunes being confiscated. She knows that the children of the Dark Lord’s 10 weren’t arrested, but she can’t find it in her heart to pity them. She knows she should. But she thinks back to her years at Hogwarts, to Pansy Parkinson taunting her from every direction, to Theo Nott pulling her curls as he passed her in the hall, to Draco Malfoy shouting slurs at her from across the grounds. Especially Draco Malfoy. 

She wonders about him more than she should. Wonders what those piercing grey eyes and platinum blonde hair are doing when they aren’t taunting her. Wonders if he still makes that terribly unattractive sneer when something’s bothering him. He was the worst off, she remembers. The son of Voldemort’s right hand man. She doesn’t feel bad for him, no. But she wonders.

She doubts she’d be thinking about him at all if it weren’t for the deliberations regarding his family’s fortune. She’s been in every meeting, filed every piece of paperwork. She knows the case of the Dark Lord’s 10 like the back of her hand. It’s her job to know. Therefore, she knows exactly how much money the Malfoy family once had, down to the knut. And from what she knows about Draco, she figures it can’t be easy to live without it.

But at the same time, she knows how many people the money could help. Rehabilitation programs, financial assistance for those who lost loved ones to the war. Some of that money could go towards Hogwarts; towards new teachers and better facilities. She’d love to see the look on Draco Malfoy’s face when he realizes his trust fund is being used to redecorate the Hufflepuff Common Room. Even the thought of it brings the hint of a smile to her lips.

The knock on her door makes her jump, even though she’s expecting it. She takes a deep breath, smoothing the front of her pencil skirt once more, before her hand makes contact with the cold metal of the handle. She pulls it open, revealing a young, short wizard with cropped black hair. His arms cradle stacks of parchment and a handful of quills, balanced precariously on top of an old clipboard. His eyes meet hers, and he looks sheepishly to the floor.

“What is it, Vincent?” She asks, the inside of her cheek held tightly between her teeth. Her pounding heartbeat grows more and more intense, dulling out the sounds of the room. Vincent passes her a piece of parchment from the top of the stack.

“They’ve just decided, Ms. Granger,” he begins. “It’s not what we wanted. But it’s not bad, either.” He stands awkwardly as Hermione takes the parchment, her eyes scanning over the meeting notes. She reads the summary section, pauses, and reads it again. She lets out a heavy sigh as her heart rate begins to slow.

“I don’t know why they’re doing this,” Hermione utters, more to herself than to Vincent. “It’s only wasting time. This money could be used now, to actually help people. How many people will suffer between now and 2005? Honestly.” She brings her fingers to her forehead, massaging the stress away from her temples. Vincent readjusts his hold on the clipboard, as if struggling underneath its weight.

“I heard from another intern that there was a lot of arguing during the hearing,” Vincent offers, as if the information will console her. “Harriet Beaufort, she interns for Joan Willanby. I saw her in passing, she said the Dark Lord’s 10 had a considerable amount of supporters.”

“Like who?” Hermione asks. “They’re all in prison. You’re not telling me their children attended the hearings?” She had a hard time imagining Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson setting foot in the courtrooms to argue their parents’ case. But with that much money involved, who knows what lengths they would go to?

“No, no relatives. Mainly other Death Eaters, ones with lesser crimes. They mostly argued that the money should be returned, to children or other family members who weren’t found guilty. But it was a lost cause. The Wizengamot was dead set on not returning the money, no matter what.”

“So this is what they came up with?” Hermione shook her head. She had chosen not to attend the hearings, knowing full well that she wouldn’t have been able to keep her mouth shut from the stands. But now, she wonders if interrupting the Wizengamot from the viewer’s booth was exactly what had been needed. “The plan is completely flawed. Even if any of the prisoners are released within the next five years, what about retribution? Should the money really be returned?”

“I agree with you, Ms. Granger,” Vincent replies meekly. “I’m just not sure there’s anything that can be done. The verdict has been rendered officially. Arielle Wood is speaking with the Daily Prophet now.”

Hermione felt her heart sink in her chest. She knew that once the verdict was official, there was no going back. She was surprised that the deliberations had taken so long in the first place; Hermione couldn’t understand why the Wizengamot would even remotely consider leaving the fortunes of the Dark Lord’s 10 in the hands of children or relatives. The Ministry needed that money, deserved that money. After all the pain that had been caused by the Death Eaters, taking their money was hardly crossing the line.

“Find Mrs. Fingle, tell her I’d like to meet with her,” Hermione sighs. Vincent nods, bowing his head ever so slightly in a way that reminds her of Dobby. Her heart grows warm at the thought. She watches as her intern turns to leave.

There had been good memories during the war, she reminds herself. But they were few and far between. She found it was becoming more and more difficult to think of anything even remotely related to those years. Hogwarts, Malfoy Manor, Harry and Ron. Even the Ministry of Magic sent a small chill up her spine every time she passed through the entrance hall. But she was forcing herself to move forward. It was all she knew how to do.

She knows she’ll have a lot of paperwork to deal with over the next few weeks. Meetings to sit in, negotiations to be outlined. Storing that amount of money in Gringotts would not be nearly as simple as opening a personal vault. There would need to be security measures taken, forms signed, permissions given. And yet, if the Wizengamot had ruled completely in their favor, there would be no need for such work.

Hermione makes her way back to her desk, settling into the wooden chair. She leans her elbows on the wood, her head cradled in her hands, her curls tangled between her fingers. She’s unbelievably, all-consumingly exhausted. She has been since the very minute the war ended. She’s tired of court hearings, of fortune negotiations, of the stacks of paperwork that pile on her desk. She’s tired of the nightmares. She’s tired of waking up every morning knowing that the day won’t be any better than the last.

But she’ll continue on anyways, with the court hearings, the negotiations, the paperwork. She’ll fall asleep at night and wake up to vivid, terrifying nightmares. She’ll continue to exist, because she knows just how painful it is for the living to continue on without the dead. And she could never do that to Ron, to Harry. She closes her eyes, allowing herself a moment of peace, and wonders if their love will ever be enough to stop the pain.


	13. II

“It could be worse.”

Harry perches on a stool, his fingers playing with the cracked shells of bar pistachios. He shoves a few of the green nuts into his mouth, sucking to savor the salty flavor. He’s flanked by Ron on his left with his own hearty pile of pistachios, and Hermione on his right, who pays no attention to the nuts, but continuously stirs her gin and tonic with a tiny black straw.

She hadn’t expected Ron or Harry to understand her feelings on the verdict. To them, all that mattered was the fact that the Dark Lord’s 10 were in Azkaban, and their children had been robbed of every last knut of their trust funds. It was comical to them.

“Yeah, Mione, it’s not a terrible verdict,” Ron chimes in between bites of pistachio. “Besides, think of all the people you’ll be able to help in the next five years. I can’t even imagine how much that amount of money could do.” His eyes drift off into space, a dreamy look rising beneath his irises. Even with his job as an Auror, he isn’t very well-off. What with Voldemort dead and his supporters locked in Azkaban, there wasn’t much need for Dark wizard-catchers anymore. Budget cuts forced Auror salaries to drop significantly.

“Right, but Ron,” Hermione grumbles. “Think of all the people the money could help right now! The war is still fresh. If we wait five years, it might be too late!” She takes another sip of her cocktail, the strength of the alcohol causing her to wince. She never got used to the taste of it. She tried for a while after the war, after hearing it could numb her pain, but she never got past the pounding headaches and nausea that came with it. She always preferred a healthy dose of Draught of Peace instead.

“There’s nothing you can do about it now,” Harry adds, placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Really, Hermione, it’s a good thing. The money wasn’t returned. It will still belong to the Ministry, just in a few years.” But Hermione isn’t consoled by his words. She knows he’s right, that there isn’t anything that can be done. But the very thought of it sends a twinge of anger into her stomach.

She drifts off as the conversation changes to an anecdote from life in the Auror Department, watching as Harry and Ron lose themselves in the discussion, erupting in laughter every few moments. She envies how happy they look, with the pink in their cheeks from the alcohol and the twinkle in their eyes from laughter. She doesn’t get it. She isn’t sure that she ever will.

Her friendship with Harry and Ron remained important to her, but they’d drifted apart over the past two years. It was always Harry and Ron, everywhere they went. They worked together, lived together, went to bars together. Hermione was no longer a part of their every move. She joined them sometimes for after-work drinks, as she had this evening, but she didn’t feel like their friend as much as she once had. She felt more like an acquaintance. A coworker. A guest.

She knows it’s because of her relationship with Ron. Because it didn’t work out. Because she had broken up with him and moved out of their shared apartment. The three had gotten over it, had tried to salvage their friendship and move forward, but Hermione knew that Ron still harbored anger towards her. She had tried to make him understand that she loved him very much. But she couldn’t love him in the way he wanted her to. She had lost the ability to do that during the war.

But now, she felt like an outsider. She tried to pretend everything was the same; she always told Harry and Ron everything before she told anyone else. But she knew it wasn’t, and it wouldn’t be ever again. The Golden Trio had become a duo. The Golden Trio. She had hated that the Daily Prophet called them that. Like risking your life each and every day hunting horcruxes was something to be proud of. Hermione had never felt proud of herself. She had only ever felt loss.

She snaps herself back into the conversation when she hears Ron mention Harry’s birthday. One thing remained true: even if she was no longer as close with Ron and Harry as she had been in school, she would never stop doing everything she could to make sure Harry had a good birthday. She had eleven years to make up for.

“So, what’s the plan, big guy?” Ron asks, copping Harry roughly on the shoulder. “The big 2-0. Can’t let this one slip away, can we?” He shoves another handful of pistachios into his mouth, spraying bits of shell as he crunches.

“Right, Harry,” Hermione pipes up. “Anything, really. Whatever you’d like to do.” She places her hand gingerly on Harry’s knee, before retracting it. It feels strange to touch him like this. Like it’s no longer appropriate for her to do so.

“I know what we should do,” Ron responds, interrupting Harry’s answer. “We should go to a strip club!” He bursts out laughing, bits of pistachio landing on the wooden surface of the bar. Harry stares at him incredulously for a moment, before joining in. Hermione only rolls her eyes.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she grumbles. “We will absolutely not be going to a strip club! How classless do you think Harry is, Ronald?” She reaches around the brown-haired boy to swat at Ron. “And what would Ginny think?”

“She wouldn’t mind,” Ron scoffs. “It’s not like they’re married. And besides, every man goes to a strip club for his stag do. We’d just be speeding up that process by going for Harry’s birthday!” His face was giddy with excitement.

“I suppose it’s really up to Harry,” Hermione replies. “But do think of Ginny. I’m not sure she’d love the idea of half-naked women writhing around on your lap, Harry.” Ron scoffs, whispering something under his breath about Hermione being a prude. She ignores him.

“It could be fun,” Harry answers, contemplating the option. “But we’ve got loads of time to decide, haven’t we? Let’s mark it as a maybe. But for now, I’d like to propose a toast.” He raises his glass of Firewhiskey, followed suit by Ron and Hermione. “To another year alive, and many more to go!” The glasses clink against each other, and the three friends swallow their drinks in unison.


	14. III

Hermione stands in the main hallway of the Department of Wizarding Commerce, her hands clasped around a manila file folder stuffed with parchment. She taps the top of her pointed heel repeatedly on the hardwood floor, savoring each sharp clack. Ever since she started working at the Ministry, she found herself unable to sit still, to wait patiently. Tardiness made her anxious, whether that be hers or others.

At ten past the hour, the double wooden doors of the Head office open, allowing Hermione to enter the stuffy room. She takes a seat opposite the mahogany desk, her eyes watching her supervisor expectantly. She can’t help but feel a hint of frustration at her lateness. Gloria Fingle was never one for being on time.

The elderly woman settles herself back into her seat, clearing her throat with an ineffectual cough. In the few years Hermione has known her, she’s been nursing a persistent illness, her loud hacks filling each and every meeting. Her wrinkled hands reach for the china teapot perched on the desk, pouring the hot, steaming water into two identical cups. She pushes one across to Hermione, who accepts it gratefully. She needs something to calm her nerves, to silence her frustrations. She knows she won’t get anywhere by raising her voice with her superior.

“Ms. Granger,” Gloria takes a sip of her tea, sighing loudly as she swallows it. “How can I help you? I saw on the board that you requested a meeting with me.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fingle, thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” Hermione begins, the bitter tea scalding her tongue. “As you know, I have some concerns about the verdict regarding the Dark Lord’s 10. I was hoping you could offer me some more insight on the decision.” She does her best to keep her voice calm, but she knows what’s coming. She knows Gloria won’t help her.

As if on cue, Gloria sets down her cup and fixes her gaze on Hermione, her lips pulled into a tight line. She shoots Hermione a look reminiscent of one an adult might give a disobeying child. Hermione digs her fingernails into her palms.

“Ms. Granger, I understand your concerns, you’ve voiced them very clearly. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. It’s not under my authority.” She offers Hermione a smile that feels all too forced. Hermione shifts her weight in her seat.

“But it is under our authority, is it not?” She continues. “We’re the Department of Wizarding Commerce, the money is our responsibility now. Are we not supposed to be overseeing it until the vault has been secured?”

“It’s our responsibility in the sense that we are overseeing it, yes. But we have no authority to go against the Wizengamot’s ruling, or call for a retrial. Ms. Granger, this verdict is a good thing for the Ministry, as you know I and many others believe. You must learn to be patient.” Gloria takes another sip from her cup, the steam fogging up her glasses. Hermione releases the grip on her palms. Patience was not one of her virtues.

“What’s our next step?” She doesn’t want to drop the topic, not yet. But she knows it’s a lost cause. She’ll need to focus instead on protecting the funds, keeping them safe until the five-year period has passed.

Gloria offers Hermione another smile, though this time it appears to be genuine. She’s obviously pleased that Hermione has moved on from her arguing. “Well, like you mentioned, it will take some time for the vault to be prepared and properly secured. We will meet with some of the Gringotts employees to determine the best ways to go about storing such a large fortune.”

“And what about theft?” Hermione asks, blowing gently on her tea before daring to take another sip. “Gringotts is secure, yes, but there’s been robberies before. How can we ensure that doesn’t happen this time?” She thinks back to sneaking into the bank dressed as Bellatrix Lestrange and pulling off the second-known robbery to ever occur in Gringotts history. And that vault was supposed to be well-protected. If the money has to remain in the bank for half a decade, Hermione is hell-bent on ensuring that nobody gets to it before the Ministry does.

“There will be measures set in place, Ms. Granger. Though I’m sure many of them will be classified information. I can’t promise you that your attendance at every deliberation meeting will be allowed, though I will vouch for you as much as possible. This is an awfully large load for just one old woman to bear.” Gloria lets out a little chuckle, which turns into a hacking cough.

“When’s the first meeting?” Hermione finishes her tea, placing the empty cup back onto the tray with the teapot. She wants to get back into her office and start preparing. She wants to have every bit of information lined perfectly so that theft is virtually impossible, even if it means sacrificing her attendance at the deliberation meetings.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Gloria replies, dabbing at the corners of her lips with an old handkerchief. “We will be meeting with Vuld. The Wizengamot feels it the best idea to begin negotiations as soon as possible, to limit the amount of time the money remains in the Ministry.”

Hermione nods in agreement, her mind racing to any possible memory of Vuld. She knows he’s the Head Goblin of Gringotts, but she’s not sure she’s ever worked with him before. She usually speaks to one of his assistants when negotiating Ministry-bank relations.

“I’ll be there.” She pushes herself to her feet, reaching a hand across to Gloria who takes it in her own wrinkled palm. She barely notices herself being ushered out of the office, her mind only clicking back into reality when she’s settled behind her own wooden desk. She immediately pulls out a piece of parchment, before reaching for the stack of books she’s pulled from her bookshelf.

Hermione dives into Gringotts: A History, taking notes on every little detail about security, theft, and detection charms. After reading the book cover to cover, she moves into A Guide to Goblin-Wizard Relations, before settling on the fifth volume of Wizarding Commerce in the 20th Century. Her love for reading hasn’t changed a bit since the war; it’s one of the few things that makes her feel like herself. She never attends a meeting without completing a bit of preliminary research.

The clock on her desk reads 6:30 by the time she finishes her notes. She folds the parchment, placing it into the top drawer of her desk, before reaching for her coat. She doesn’t have any plans to meet Harry and Ron tonight, which means she’ll be spending the evening alone in her apartment, just as she does most often. She both loves and hates the quiet, unsure whether she’s truly lonely, or just alone.

As she moves towards the door of her office, a book catches her eye. She steps towards the bookshelf, her fingers moving to caress the rough spine. It’s old, leathery, and a faded maroon color, something she likely inherited from the rubble of the Hogwarts library. She inspects the jacket, turning the book over in her palms. The title glitters in gold lettering: An Ode to Security: Charms, Spells, and Jinxes.

She slips the book into her purse before disappearing out the door.


	15. IV

The meeting room is silent. Hermione sits on the left side of a long, rectangular table, her notes and quills spread out in front of her. Gloria is perched directly opposite of Hermione, a cup of steaming tea in her hands. She coughs frequently, the old handkerchief never far from her reach. On Hermione’s right side, Vincent sits with his clipboard, his eyes darting repeatedly between Hermione, Gloria, and the closed door.

Hermione can feel the familiar frustration bubbling in her stomach as the minutes tick by. The Department was supposed to be meeting with Vuld exactly seven minutes ago. She reminds herself to take deep breaths, that magical transportation is not always predictable. But she can’t help but worry about what kind of security is being provided by someone who isn’t punctual.

At last, the door opens, and Vuld is escorted in by a secretary. She nods to Gloria, who returns the gesture with a small clearing of her throat, before standing to greet the goblin. He shakes the old woman’s hand, nodding curtly at Hermione and Vincent, before taking the seat at the head of the table. He removes a stack of papers from the small, leather briefcase slung over his body.

“Vuld, thank you for joining us,” Gloria begins formally. “I’d like to introduce you to Hermione Granger, who will be working closely with me on this transition, as well as Vincent Rodrigo, our intern. We’re excited to begin working on the plans for the Devil’s Vault.”

“Before we can get started, there is paperwork that must be filled out,” Vuld replies, skipping over the pleasantries. He begins sorting his papers into several stacks. “We cannot begin deliberations until these are completed. They’re standard forms, non-disclosure agreements, insurance filing. Please take a look at them now.” He pushes the papers across the table. Hermione reaches for a stack.

As Vuld explained, the first sheet of paper was a non-disclosure agreement. Hermione had expected she’d need to sign one, but she hadn’t realized it would be so early in the process. After all, the fortunes had already been resting in the Ministry for the past two years, and she’d never been asked to sign a form. But the fortunes whereabouts at the time were public knowledge. She figures this in-between period is highly classified.

She finds herself zoning out for the rest of the meeting. Vuld had been entirely serious about the paperwork needing to be filled out and filed before any deliberations could begin. After what felt like hours of signing her name on various dotted lines, Hermione exited the meeting room with Vincent on her heels. She wasn’t feeling any better about the vault’s security.

“I’m off for the evening, Vincent,” she tells the waiting wizard as she collects her purse and jacket from her office. “Make copies of every form from today’s meeting and file them before you leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The man bows formally as she leaves the office, her head pounding from the various jargon of each form.

Back in her flat, Hermione peruses An Ode to Security. She hadn’t had time the evening before to delve into the book, and even tonight, she found her mind wandering. The print of the text was incredibly small, the writing dense, even for her. She felt herself beginning to drift off into sleep, the long passages about charm theory sending her into a doze.

But Hermione wouldn’t allow herself to fall asleep, not yet. She needs to stay awake, to stay energized. She needs to begin reading the book. She places the text on her coffee table, jumping to her feet and grabbing her coat from the back of a kitchen chair. With her wand held tightly between her fingers, she steps out of her flat and into the cold London night.

She doesn’t have a destination in mind, she never does during her walks. She lets her body decide her path, her fingers gripping her wand at all times, just in case. It was a habit she never dropped after the war. She figured it was always better to be prepared.

Hermione runs over the day’s events in her mind, the meeting with Vuld, the salad she had for lunch, the discussion with Vincent about wizard-Muggle exchange rates. She commits the important parts to memory before allowing the rest to dispel from her mind, sending them as far away as she possibly can. With that small gesture, she finds herself already feeling lighter.

As she rounds the corner of the street, a building catches her eye. It’s an old warehouse; the glass from the window panes is shattered onto the sidewalk. She’s walked past it before, she’s sure of that, but this time, there’s a light on. As she nears the warehouse, she can hear voices. Yelling. Jeering.

She picks up her pace until she’s right outside the building. Up close, she realizes just how old it is. There are several bricks missing from the facade, other parts are covered with spray paint. She leans towards the window, squinting her eyes to see through the dirty glass. Her heart begins to pound.

She’s stumbled across some sort of fight club. A crowd of wizards gathers around two men, both throwing punches at each other. She hears shouts of encouragement, obscenities. She winces as one of the men’s fists make contact with the other’s jaw. The whole thing is so heinous, so absolutely uncivilized. She decides she doesn’t want to see any more, when the man on the right swings again, this time knocking his hood off of his head.

And she sees it. That shock of blonde. Her pulse quickens, and she can’t seem to draw her eyes away from the scene in front of her. She knows it’s him, even through the dirty glass. She watches with horror as he pounces on the other man, his fists repeatedly making contact. She can’t believe what she’s seeing.

She watches as he knocks down his opponent, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. And then, his eyes are on hers, and she gasps. There’s no doubt in her mind now. His piercing grey eyes immediately ignite every nerve in her body, her breath hitching in her chest. He doesn’t look well. His face is skinnier than she remembers, his hollowed cheekbones more prominent than ever. The dark circles underneath his eyes mix with the bruising on the side of his face, making him look like some sort of grotesque painting. She feels the nausea rising in her stomach.

Hermione moves to avert her gaze, but as her eyes flicker away from his face, her attention is drawn back by his opponent getting back to his feet. He’s still looking at her, and she wants to scream, to point, to do anything to get his attention back to the fight, but it’s too late. She watches in horror as his opponent’s fist collides with his skull, and his pale body crumples to the ground.


	16. V

She can’t sleep.

Everytime she closes her eyes, she’s plagued with visions of Draco’s body hitting the concrete floor of the warehouse. She remembers herself standing, horror-stricken, unable to move, until she saw the familiar heights of Theo and Blaise race across the room, gather Draco by his armpits and drag him to the side of the warehouse. Only then was she able to detach her gaze and hurry away from the building, her heart caught in her throat the entire way home.

She has questions, so many questions. She wants to know what he was doing there, why he was fighting that other man. She wants to know why Blaise and Theo were watching idly by, allowing it to happen. She wants to know what he had thought when his eyes made contact with hers.

Hermione finds herself chewing on the familiar sensation of guilt. She knew it was her fault he’d been knocked down. He had seen her, he had allowed himself to be distracted for a moment too long. If he had needed any more reason to hate her, this was a prime option. But Hermione also knew she would likely never see him again, and so she let the feeling dispel.

She pushes herself into a seated position, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and reaching for An Ode to Security. She illuminates the bedroom with a flick of her wand, propping open the old book on her lap. This time, she skips the introduction and instead searches through the sections, landing on a chapter specifically on security charms. The nocturnal sounds of London buzz outside her window as she begins to read.

She wishes there was some way to ensure nobody would ever be able to find the vault in the first place, so long as they had the intention to rob it. But even if there was such a charm, she knew she’d never be able to perform it herself. Magic like that, if it even existed, was unbelievably powerful. No Ministry or Gringotts employee was even remotely talented enough.

As Hermione’s eyes scan the pages, she finds herself reading a section over and over again. She’s heard of it before, but the name barely jogs her memory. She brings the book closer to her face, her eyes squinting at the small text.

“The Fidelius Charm: The Fidelius Charm was once looked at as the best security charm in the Wizarding World. When performed correctly, the charm conceals a secret in a single person’s soul, i.e., the Secret-Keeper. Only if that person willingly chooses to divulge this information will it ever be shared. However, after a group of unlucky wizards in the early 18th century discovered that their chosen Secret-Keeper couldn’t be trusted, the charm was no longer looked at as the go-to in keeping items secure.”

Hermione could feel the cogs of her brain begin to turn, faster and faster as if she’d been wound up like a toy. Her heart began to race. She had learned about the Fidelius Charm back in school, but she now remembers why it sounded so familiar. It was what the Potters had used to conceal their location, which ultimately led to their death and the arrest of Sirius Black.

It all seems so simple now. The Fidelius Charm was the solution she had been looking for, a foolproof plan to keep the money safe. But this time, she’d ensure that the Secret-Keeper was trustworthy. Gloria was the perfect candidate. She was unmarried, had no children, and she was old enough not to be suspected. It was all so perfect.

Hermione reaches for a piece of parchment on her nightstand, scribbling down a few notes for the morning. She places the book back on the table, settling herself into her bed, and tries her very best to fall asleep.

-

Hermione arrives at the meeting room thirty minutes early, her arms laden with An Ode to Security and the notes from the night prior. She knows it’ll be awhile before Gloria or Vuld show up, but she can’t bring herself to wait in her office. She’s far too excited, far too nervous. When the familiar sound of the door handle turning trickles into her ears, she leaps to her feet.

Gloria and Vuld enter the room and take their respective seats, all while watching Hermione expectantly. She smiles at the two, allowing herself to sink back into her chair. But she doesn’t wait for Gloria to open the meeting. Instead, she launches immediately into her findings.

“I know how we can keep the location of the Devil’s Vault entirely secret,” she begins. “I read about it last night. We can use the Fidelius Charm.”

Gloria raises her eyebrows, obviously pleased with Hermione’s findings. Vuld’s expression is indifferent. He shifts his weight in his seat, clearing his throat loudly. “The Fidelius Charm has proven to be inaccurate at times, Ms. Granger.”

“I know that,” Hermione continues. “But listen, if we were to make Mrs. Fingle the Secret-Keeper, the location will be perfectly safe.” She reaches for her parchment, passing it into the center of the table for the rest of the participants to see. “Her years with the Ministry have proven her to be a loyal employee, and she’s not a typical suspect when it comes to Secret-Keepers. I’ve read that they’re often young, and close with the person whose secret is being kept. If anything, the employees of Gringotts would be the first to be suspected.”

Gloria had taken the parchment from the table, scanning Hermione’s notes with a pleased expression written on her face. She began to cough, but suppressed it with the handkerchief. “Vuld, I must say, Ms. Granger has made a very good point. I’d be honored to be the Secret-Keeper for the location of the Devil’s Vault, if you see it fit.”

Vuld fixes his gaze on Hermione. She could feel her cheeks burning red as he contemplates the idea. After a moment, he offers a forced smile. “Very well, then. If the Ministry wishes.”

“We’ll need the Minister to perform the charm,” Gloria continues. “He’s done it before, I know. I won’t be able to myself, and I don’t believe you have the experience, Ms. Granger.”

“No,” Hermione answers, but the remark doesn’t offend her. She’s too relieved that Gloria and Vuld have decided to use the Fidelius Charm. She lets out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the past few days leave her chest.

“We’ll send Vincent,” Gloria begins, but Vuld interrupts her by standing up from the table, his fat belly knocking over an empty water glass.

“No need,” he grunts. “I’ll go myself. I fancy a walk anyhow.” He nods curtly to the two women, before disappearing out of the meeting room. Gloria turns to Hermione and offers her another smile, before her cough returns. Hermione watches her with a hint of disgust as the woman hacks loudly, her handkerchief barely covering her mouth.

She’s about to avert her gaze when she notices the white fabric of the handkerchief has turned a pinkish-red color. Her eyes grow wide at the old woman, who hasn’t seemed to notice. Instead, she continues to cough, and Hermione hears the faint sounds of her gasping for breath.

“Mrs. Fingle,” Hermione cries, rushing across the table to the woman. “Mrs. Fingle! Are you alright? Mrs. Fingle!” But the woman doesn’t respond. She lets out one more hack, her fingers clawing at the skin of her throat, before she collapses forward, her forehead hitting the edge of the table. Hermione screams, bending down to roll Gloria onto her back. She feels the old woman’s wrist for a pulse, but there isn’t one.

Hermione lets out another scream. At the same moment, the door to the meeting room swings open, revealing Vuld and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley’s eyes fly open, and he immediately rushes to Gloria’s side, his fingers gripping at her wrist for any semblance of a pulse. Hermione turns to Vuld, her eyes wild and manic, her heart beating out of her chest.

“She, she just collapsed, there’s no pulse, I don’t know what happened!” She places her fingers on either side of her temple, her breath ragged. Vuld simply stares at her, completely unperturbed by the woman laying motionless on the floor.

“Very well, then,” he utters. “It’ll be you instead.”


	17. VI

Gloria’s death was a big deal. She was the Head of the department, and had been for the past twenty years. In the wake of her death, Hermione found herself taking on the extra responsibilities. It wasn’t too much, especially with the help of Vincent. But she could hardly believe Gloria was dead. She had worked with the woman for several years. Her death had come as such a shock to Hermione.

The ultimate cause of death ended up being lung failure. By the time Kingsley had arrived at the meeting room, there was nothing that could have been done. Her body was sent to St. Mungo’s to be examined. The Healers explained that her hacking cough had been a sign of something serious. But she’d never gotten it looked at, and now she was dead.

Hermione sits behind her wooden desk, the stacks of parchment noticeably taller. She’d been working overtime the past few days to ensure that everything in the department continued to run smoothly, all the while chewing on Vuld’s words from the day of Gloria’s death. She knew what he had meant. She just hadn’t even remotely considered the possibility that she would be the Secret-Keeper for the Devil’s Vault.

She’s interrupted by a knock on her door, followed by the smiling face of Kingsley Shacklebolt. He closes the door behind him, gliding across the room before settling himself in the seat opposite Hermione. She offers him a lighthearted smile.

“Good afternoon, Minister. What can I do for you?” She pushes aside the stacks of parchment, folding her hands politely on the desk in front of her. The man smiles once again. Despite the war, Kingsley Shacklebolt appears to be in the prime of his life. His swirling, navy-blue robes lend him a very regal appearance. Aside from a few scars on one side of his cheek, the war is virtually undetectable in him.

“I’d like to offer my condolences for the passing of Mrs. Fingle. I know you’ve worked closely with her over the past few years.” Hermione nods politely in response. She wasn’t very close with Gloria, but she’s still saddened by her death all the same. Gloria was alone in her life, spouseless, childless. Hermione wonders what it feels like to die knowing nobody will remember you. She makes a mental note to remember Gloria for as long as she lives.

“Thank you, Minister. My condolences to you, as well.”

“Ms. Granger, I’m sure you’re aware that we need to replace the Head of the department, now that Mrs. Fingle is no longer with us. I’ll keep this brief, because I know you’re a very busy woman. The Ministry is very pleased with your work in the Department of Wizarding Commerce. I for one know personally how driven you are. Therefore, I’d like to offer you the position of Head of the department, if you so wish to accept.”

Hermione felt her jaw drop ever so slightly. Kingsley watches her with a smile. She can feel her heart begin to beat in her chest, but it wasn’t the familiar feeling of anxiety that drove her pulse to quicken. She felt excited. Proud.

“Minister, I’d be honored,” she breathes, her mouth pulled into a genuine, toothy smile. “Are you sure? I’ve only been working here for a few years.” She bites her lip, her mind suddenly darting to every possible way she could screw this up. Her confidence had dwindled since the war. Gone were the days of never doubting any of her actions.

“There are more experienced members of the department, sure. But I am certain that you are the best option. Not only have you worked closely with Mrs. Fingle these past few years, but you’ve taken on her extra responsibilities without being told to do so. That ambition, that determination is exactly what I’m looking for in a Head.”

Hermione averts her gaze slightly, her mind still abuzz with self-doubt. Kingsley notices the gesture, placing one of his hands on Hermione’s arm.

“The job comes with a raise, if that helps.”

Hermione lets out a laugh. She nods her head. “I accept, yes. I’d be honored. Thank you, Minister, for your faith.” She can feel her heart rate begin to slow. Kingsley believes she could do the job, therefore, she must be capable of doing so. She valued his opinions very much.

“Wonderful! I’ll send over the necessary paperwork, but I believe my job here is done. If you have any questions at all, feel free to reach out to me. And I believe I’ll be seeing you tomorrow!” He stands from his chair, but pauses at Hermione’s quizzical look.

“My apologies, Minister, what is happening tomorrow?” She racks her brain for any possible memory, but she’s almost certain she didn’t have anything scheduled. Most meetings had been postponed after Gloria’s death. The department was giving themselves time to mourn.

“Ms. Granger,” Kingsley lets out a chuckle. “Surely you can’t have forgotten about the Devil’s Vault? I believe it is the number one priority being handled by your department at this time. Vuld has requested a meeting tomorrow afternoon to perform the Fidelius Charm. The sooner the better, I suppose.”

Hermione felt the anxiety growing in her stomach once again. She hadn’t expected it to happen so soon after Gloria’s death. She had expected a grace period, some time where she could focus only on the work of the department. She wasn’t prepared for the immense responsibility this would be.

But she didn’t have a choice, and she knew that. And as she stands in front of the mirror the next morning, nervously smoothing down her skirt and brushing back her curls, preparing herself for the biggest responsibility of her life, she wonders just what she’s gotten herself into.


	18. VII

She’s early.

She finds herself once again pacing, her stomach knotted with anxiety, as she waits for Kingsley and Vuld to arrive. She knew there was nothing to worry about; she had researched the Fidelius Charm even further after Gloria’s death, only to find that even if she were to be tortured, she wouldn’t be physically able to reveal the location of the Devil’s Vault. She only hoped that anyone who may try would know that beforehand.

She feels a little bit of relief as well, that she has complete control over the security of the vault. She wouldn’t have to worry about Gloria possibly revealing the location. With her being the Secret-Keeper, she knew there was no way anyone would get remotely close to discovering the location of the vault. She’d take the secret to her death, if need be. Anything to ensure the money was donated to the Ministry.

She forces herself to stop pacing, choosing instead to stand in one place and wait for the knock on the door. Any minute now, she reminds herself. Any minute now and they’ll be here, and then it will be over, and there won’t be anything else to worry about.

As though the universe has read her thoughts, the soft knock finally rings through the room, followed by Kingsley and Vuld. Their expressions contrast greatly; Kingsley is all smiles, as usual, while Vuld is sullen, grumpy, and altogether looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Hermione moves to greet them, wondering for a moment if they can tell just how anxious she is.

“Ms. Granger, good to see you this afternoon!” Kingsley flashes her a smile, drawing his wand out from the depths of his navy-blue robes. “Are we ready to begin? I’ve got quite a busy day today, so I’d rather not dawdle.” He chuckles to himself. Vuld ignores his eagerness, choosing instead to straighten his tie and clear his throat.

“Yes, I’m ready, Minister,” Hermione utters. She extends a hand to Vuld, who takes it between his own. His piercing stare meets hers, and Hermione feels a chill run down her spine. She’s tempted to avert her gaze to the floor, but she knows that’ll only make her look weak. And she will not be weak.

“Very well, then,” Kingsley readies his wand, the tip coming to rest on their intertwined fingers. Hermione watches Vuld carefully, as he clears his throat once more, preparing to speak. His intonation is bored, unbothered, as if this is just another day at work for him. Hermione wonders if she’s the only one in the room who understands just how big of a responsibility this is.

“The Devil’s Vault will be located in Vault 916, at the very depths of the Gringotts system. It is reachable by minecart, though the journey is expected to take around ten minutes from start to finish. There are no other security measures currently in place. I bestow complete control over the vault’s location and further security to Ms. Hermione Granger.” He fixes his gaze on Kingsley.

Kingsley shifts his weight, ensuring that the tip of his wand is exactly where it needs to be. He taps their fingers once, twice, three times, before uttering the incantation.

“Fidelius leporem.”

The sensation is strange, unfamiliar. Hermione watches as a glow of light erupts from the tip of Kingsley’s wand. She feels tingling, as though her fingers are falling asleep, and she stands motionless as the tingling spreads through the rest of her body, to every corner it can possibly reach, before fading away with the light. She breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Very well done, Ms. Granger,” Kingsley commends. “If there’s nothing else either of you would like to say, I suppose we’re done here.” He tucks his wand back into the inner pocket of his robe, preparing to depart the room. “Good afternoon, then.”

Vuld is quick on his heels. The goblin doesn’t acknowledge Hermione, and instead, turns and follows Kingsley out of the meeting room, leaving her entirely alone. She takes a deep breath, focusing on steadying her racing heartbeat. It’s over, she reminds herself. She’s the only one that knows the location of the Devil’s Vault. And from here on out, any extra security measures are entirely her responsibility.

As she traipses back to her office, her mind wanders back to the various charms and jinxes she read about in An Ode to Security. She wonders for a moment if extra security is even needed; does the Ministry really need to send for a dragon when there’s no possible way a thief could find the vault in the first place? But she decides she’d rather be safe than sorry. Just in case something were to happen to her, or the secret she was concealing.

She remembers her very first year at Hogwarts, when her, Harry, and Ron had managed to locate the Sorcerer’s Stone, despite the many challenges designed by professors to stop thieves. She wonders if she could do something like that, a series of obstacles that would require very precise magic and logic. A puzzle, perhaps. One where only the very best could get through.

She knows she’s underestimating the relatives of the Dark Lord’s 10. They’re incredibly smart; they had to be, in order to serve Voldemort without getting killed. If any of them wanted to find the Devil’s Vault, they wouldn’t stop at anything to do so. She’d need more than just a silly puzzle. If something were to happen to her, she needed to make certain that nothing would happen to the money.

Hermione makes a note to ask Harry and Ron their thoughts on the matter. It’s Harry’s birthday, and while she’s extremely excited to be celebrating with her two friends, she’s not completely thrilled with the chosen activity. In the past few weeks, Ron had convinced Harry that visiting a strip club was the perfect way to ring in his 20th birthday. He had even bugged Ginny into letting him go, despite the ginger girl’s protests. Ron figured she was more upset at not being invited.

Hermione had wondered for a while if she should even go in the first place. How much fun could she be, watching Harry and Ron lust after half-naked women? But ultimately, she decided that Harry’s birthday was more important than a little bit of discomfort. She’d sit through it for him. And she could use that time to speak with them about security measures, even if they were too distracted to listen.

She prepares herself that evening, dressing in a pair of jeans and a sweater. She’s never been one to spend a lot of time at clubs, much less clubs with naked women, so she opts for the safest outfit she can possibly imagine. After all, she isn’t the star of the show here. She imagines she could show up wearing a pantsuit, and Harry and Ron wouldn’t think twice.

She checks her appearance in the mirror one last time, her dark curls framing her face, her pink lips glossed over, before reaching for her coat and disappearing out the door of her flat.


	19. VIII

The club is dark and dingy. The first thing Hermione notices is a bright neon sign hanging on the inside of the entrance. All who enter here tell no tales of the sins we possess. She finds it oddly poetic to be hanging in such a place.

Harry and Ron are entranced immediately, as the three make their way through the main lounge to a table near the bar. Hermione gratefully accepts Ron’s offer to order drinks, her eyes scanning the room. She notices a handful of dancers working the stage, others are parading around the room, stopping to chat with interested wizards. She wonders what would ever drive a woman to become a stripper. She could never do it herself.

Ron returns with three Firewhiskeys, handing a glass to each of them. He raises his in the air, a cheeky grin written across his freckled face. “Happy early birthday, mate. May tonight be everything you could ever dream of, and then some!” Harry blushes in return, clinking his glass against Ron’s and Hermione’s. A few scattered “hear hears,” lends to the downing of the drinks, and to everyone’s surprise, Hermione offers to buy a second round.

When she returns, the boys are engaged in a crude conversation about women, to which Hermione chooses to pay no attention. She slides back into her seat, her fingers wrapping around the chilled glass. She sips this one slowly, savoring it, allowing each burning droplet to marinate on her taste buds. She doesn’t like the taste. But she needs it, if she’s going to get through this evening.

“So, Mione,” Ron shouts over the loud music of the lounge. “Congratulations on becoming Head of the department! That’s huge!”

“Thank you,” she shouts back. “I’ve got quite a bit more responsibility now, I suppose!”

“What about the Devil’s Vault?” Harry asks through a mouthful of Firewhiskey. “Did the department ever come up with a way to keep it fully protected? Or could I walk back in and rob it, like I did the Lestranges’?” He laughs a cocky laugh.

“Well, actually,” Hermione begins. “We decided to use the Fidelius Charm. The location itself is completely undetectable.”

“You’re kidding!” Ron’s mouth is open in amazement. “So who’s the Secret-Keeper? Let’s hope they do a better job than Scabbers did. Sorry, mate.” He jabs Harry with his elbow, who shrugs him off.

“Well, it’s me, actually,” Hermione explains. “It was supposed to be Mrs. Fingle, but she, um, well, died. Vuld decided it had to be me. But you’d better not go off asking me where it is, because I certainly won’t be telling you!” She let out a laugh, and the boys joined in. She wanted to ask their opinion on other security measures, but she knew the time had passed. Ron and Harry were focused now on the dancers scattered through the room. 

As Hermione looked around, she noticed a blonde dancer leaning against the wall near their table. She was wearing a black masquerade mask over her eyes, and she didn’t appear to be interested in entertaining them for the evening. Instead, Hermione watched back as a brunette dancer moved towards them, her hands immediately roaming Harry’s chest. She averted her gaze.

She instead chooses to focus on the happenings of the club, while Ron and Harry pay for dances and chat up the various strippers who stride over. She notices after a while that the masked dancer has left. She supposes the dancers switch out every once in a while. She finds her eyes lingering on the hallway to the back rooms for a moment, and decides she’d rather not know what goes on in them. She’s just glad neither Harry nor Ron has been pulled back there yet.

Hermione finishes her drink and orders one more, resolving to leave after she finishes it. She knows she’s under no obligation to stay the entire evening, but she wants to be there for Harry to celebrate his birthday. She sips her cocktail, a gin and tonic this time, and watches the pole routines with fascination. She wonders what it takes to be that flexible, that agile. That comfortable in your own skin.

She had never really loved her body. She always thought her breasts were oddly sized, with her left being two cups bigger than her right. Her areolas were dark, her nipples far too pointy for comfort. Most of all, she hated the fine fuzz that layered her body, like she was some sort of peach. Ron had never teased her for her appearance, not once, but he’d never outwardly praised her, either. She had never really told him how insecure she actually was.

As she finishes her third and final drink, she signals to Harry and Ron from across the table, though she’s not sure they see her. Harry is far too interested in the redheaded woman writhing around on his lap. But she catches the eye of Ron for just a second, and takes the opportunity to mouth “I’m leaving,” in hopes that he’ll get the idea.

She steps out into the cold alley, shivering immediately in the dark London night. She looks around and notices just how isolated this part of the city is. She wonders why people choose to come here, but then figures it’s probably the best possible location for a strip club. Somewhere undetected. Somewhere you can be completely anonymous.

She spots a figure moving several feet away from her, and as she squints, she realizes it’s the masked dancer from earlier. She breathes a small sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived. She notices a bit too late the other figures surrounding her; big, tall figures that are unmistakably men. She wraps her fingers around her wand, her breath caught in her throat, prepared to fight at any moment.

But there’s no need. Instead, a bag is thrown over her head and pulled tight. She screams, her fists punching the empty air in front of her, but her fingers never make contact with skin. She hears the distant sound of talking, of laughing, before the incantation echoes through the alleyway.

“Stupefy!”

Her body crumples to the ground.


	20. Part Three: I

The first thing she notices upon waking up is the ropes binding her wrists and ankles to the wooden chair underneath her. She blinks her eyes, attempting to adjust to the darkness of the room, and she feels her stomach drop. As she glances around the dark, empty hall, she realizes where she is. She’s in Malfoy Manor.

Hermione opens her mouth to scream, but no sound emits from between her lips. She writhes against the chair, her muffled sounds echoing throughout the room. Tears leak from her eyes as her mind replays the past events. All she remembers is the blonde dancer. And then everything was black.

She continues to scream through silenced lips until she hears the sound of footsteps behind her. A hand makes sharp contact with the back of her head, and she groans in pain, the tears running down her cheeks. The figure slides past her, bending down so that their noses are nearly touching. Hermione recognizes her immediately.

“Shut the fuck up, Granger,” Pansy Parkinson breathes, her dark eyes narrowed sadistically. She reaches out a finger and brushes Hermione’s hair behind her ear, her touch lingering a moment on the girl’s jawline. Pansy tilts her head from side to side, as though she’s a predator surveying her prey.

“Daphne was right. You’re just as unattractive as you were back in school, Granger. It’s a pity, really,” she pushes back from the hair, her gaze lingering on a side of the room Hermione can’t see. “What do you want me to do with her?”

Another dark figure swims into view. Theodore Nott is standing before her, his brown curls arranged messily on his head. He snakes an arm around Pansy’s waist, planting a rough kiss on the side of her head. “Don’t worry about her, doll. Go find Daph and help her get this place livable again. Merlin, could this place possibly collect any more dust?” He looks around the room in disgust before shoving the dark-haired girl towards the exit. He presses a cigarette between his lips, lighting it with what Hermione recognizes at once is a Muggle lighter, and inhales deeply.

He lets out a slow exhale, the putrid scent of the tobacco filling Hermione’s nostrils, before offering a sick, twisted smile. “Finite.”

Hermione gasps for air, her sobs echoing throughout the empty room. She tries her best to slow her heartbeat, her gaze fixed upon the tall frame of Theo in front of her. He fingers his cigarette, his expression completely unbothered by Hermione’s heavy breathing.

“You,” she gasps. “What have you done? Let me go!” She fights the ropes binding her once more, but to no avail. The frayed material begins to rub against her skin, leaving her wrists raw and painful. She needs to get free, to reach her wand. She needs to get out of here.

“Don’t bother,” Theo mumbles. “You won’t be able to get free even if you try. And even if you do,” his hand reaches into his jacket, extracting the thin shape of Hermione’s wand from within. He twirls it between his fingers. “Good luck getting out of here without this.”

Hermione feels the color drain from her face as the panic rises in her stomach. She doesn’t know what he wants, but she has about a million guesses. She knows she represents everything he hates. The arrest of his parents, the confiscation of his fortune, the years of getting higher marks than him in school. She wonders if this is enough for him to hurt her. If he’s finally had enough of losing to people like her. 

“Please,” she cries, but her words are interrupted by the familiar crack of Apparition. Blaise Zabini is standing in front of her, his slender fingers clasped around a cloth bag. Hermione recognizes it to be the one from her purse. He tosses it to Theo, who catches it, placing it inside his jacket pocket.

“You can keep it. Please, I don’t need it back.” Her voice is pleading, but neither Theo nor Blaise look very impressed by her words. Blaise crosses his arms in front of his chest, watching Hermione cautiously, as though he expects her to have a full-on manic episode any minute. But she won’t. She closes her eyes, focusing on returning her pulse to normal. They’re peers, she reminds herself. They’re already in bad light with the Ministry. They won’t hurt me. They can’t hurt me. She opens them again, only to notice that Blaise is no longer standing in front of her. Once again, the room is empty except for her and Theo.

“Theo.” The name feels foreign coming out of her mouth. But he doesn’t correct her. He doesn’t spit at her to call him by his last name, like Draco always did. He doesn’t seem to even register the fact that she said his name at all. He continues to watch her, the smoke from his cigarette drifting to the ceiling. She takes it as a cue to keep going.

“Theo, please don’t do this. They’ll come after you, you’ll go to Azkaban. It won’t be worth it. You can let me go, I won’t say anything. I won’t tell the Ministry what happened. Just let me go.”

The brown-haired boy flicks his cigarette to the floor and lets out a chilling laugh. He shakes his head, his eyes resting on Hermione.

“Always were so rational, weren’t you, Granger?” He chuckles to himself. “Settle down. I’m not going to hurt you. I only want something from you. I believe you have something of mine, of all of ours. It’s time to give it back.”

Hermione racks her brain, trying to deduce Theo’s words. She knows she doesn’t have anything of theirs. She never inherited any of the confiscated money. The money. Her eyes widen. Of course this is about the money. She takes a deep breath.

“I don’t have your money, Theo.”

“Maybe not,” Theo takes a step towards her. “But you know where it is. And don’t tell me you don’t, because I don’t like liars. You know where the money is. And you’re not leaving here until you tell us how to get it back.”


	21. II

Draco sits on the edge of a dusty bed, the room around him dark and cold. He hasn’t bothered to open the windows, to light a candle. He only sits, his head cradled in his hands, his knuckles bruised and bleeding from the many punches he’s thrown into the walls, mirrors, and empty portraits. He doesn’t want to be back here. He can’t stand being back here. His old room taunts him with promises of a childhood he never got to live, and never would again.

He hasn’t seen her. He doesn’t want to help Theo, help convince her to reveal the location of the vault to them. He couldn’t believe how stupid she was, how absolutely idiotic she had to be to publicly announce that she was the Secret-Keeper. They’d been lucky that Daphne had been listening. But the very thought of trying to talk to someone who announced to a strip club the nature of her secret business made his blood boil.

He knew she wouldn’t give it up easily. It wasn’t like her. She would never help them, and he knew she wasn’t afraid of torture. Of pain. She was the Golden Trio’s Golden Girl. He was the only one who understood what they were getting themselves into. They had to get the location. He had to get the location. If they let her go, she’d rat them out to the Ministry. They’d be rotting in Azkaban in a heartbeat. Everything would be a million times worse.

Draco didn’t want to see her. The very idea of her haunting the halls of his childhood home, a place that already held so many ghosts, was sickening. He wanted to keep her presence confined to one area of the Manor. But he knows her. And he knows she won’t confess if he isn’t strategic about it.

As he presses his back to the wooden surface of the headboard, he allows himself to wonder for a moment what they’re doing to her. He hasn’t heard screams, not yet. She deserves it, he reminds himself. For everything she’s done to him, to his family. She deserves to get the shit kicked out of her. For her ugly teeth, for her stupid, soft hair. He hates her. He fucking hates her. But as he imagines her strapped to the chair, Theo and Pansy torturing her with various spells and jinxes, he feels nausea rise in his stomach.

He wants to get the money, to leave London and never come back. He wants to get away from the stares; the pity and fear in the eyes of every wizard he passes on the streets. He had been better than his father. He had refused to get the Dark Mark, instead convincing Voldemort that he and his friends could better serve him as spies. But the consequences were all the same. He may not have the inky hatred forever ingrained on his skin, but he knows it’ll be forever ingrained in his soul.

Draco doesn’t mind fighting, he really doesn’t. But he never feels any better afterwards. He doesn’t feel relieved, less angry. He feels the exact same as he does before his fights, as he does all the time. He feels empty, hollow. Like if he stopped moving, if he stopped getting up every morning to smoke a cigarette in the alleyway beneath their flat, that he’d cease to exist.

He’s pulled from thought by a slight rapping on the closed door. The hinges squeak as Blaise pushes it open, a sheepish expression written across his face. He loiters in the doorway, his eyes roaming the broken glass and plaster littering the hardwood floor. Draco shakes his head, his blonde hair falling into his eyes.

“Don’t say anything,” he growls. “You don’t get to say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to, mate,” Blaise shifts his weight to his other foot. “Theo wants you. They’re downstairs.”

“What does he need me for?” Draco pushes himself up from his bed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He sniffs audibly. Blaise takes a step back towards the door. “I told him I’m not helping with the mudblood. He can deal with it.”

“I really don’t know, man. But I’d go down there if I were you. There’s been enough fighting between us to last the rest of my life.” He turns on his heel and exits the room, disappearing down the darkened hallway. Draco follows slowly, taking his time with each step. As he descends the main staircase, he’s jarred by the sudden shouting and slamming of a body into something hard. He sees Theo run past him, towards the front doors.

“You stupid bitch! Do you really think you could get out of here if you tried?” Draco follows, only to find Hermione writhing on the ground several feet outside of the front door of the Manor. It’s as though she’s hit a force field, some type of impenetrable shield keeping her inside. Theo laughs.

“There’s wards, Granger. And I thought you were the smart one!” His gaze lands on Draco, and he offers him a half-smile. “I let her go for a moment, and next thing I know she’s making a run for it! I don’t remember her being this feisty!”

“I do,” Draco mumbles under his breath. Theo doesn’t catch it. Instead, he takes a few steps outside and extends a hand to Hermione, pulling her to her feet. Draco averts his gaze, but he knows she’s watching him. And he knows exactly what she’s thinking. That he hasn’t changed since the war. That he isn’t any better. He knows she’s right.

“What did you need me for?” Draco swats Theo on the shoulder, all the while keeping his gaze focused anywhere but the curly-headed girl standing five feet from him. He doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to give her that satisfaction. He doesn’t want her to know how uncomfortable she makes him.

“She’s not talking,” Theo mutters, jerking his head towards Hermione, as though this whole thing is some covert operation. Hermione huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, her pouting lips sending sparks through Draco’s body. Sparks of anger, he reminds himself. That’s right. Anger.

“The fuck you want me to do about that? No shit she isn’t talking,” Draco smacks Theo upside his head. He sees the hint of a smile form on Hermione’s lips through the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know why she’s smiling. He isn’t defending her. He doesn’t give a fuck what happens to her.

“Well, we’ve got to put her somewhere. What room should she have?” Theo turns towards Draco, his expression entirely serious. Draco bursts out in a loud, chilling laugh, causing Hermione to take a step backward. He stretches his arms wide in the air, scoffing aggressively.

“Look around, mate! Look at where we fucking are! Do you think I give a fuck what room you put her in? You can let the fucking mudblood pick her own for all I care!” Hermione winces at his words, but she knows she shouldn’t be surprised by them. She’s not sure if she is.

“Alright, settle down,” Theo pats Draco on the shoulder, before turning to Hermione. “Granger, you heard the man. We don’t care where you choose to sleep. And don’t bother trying to escape. There’s no way in hell you’ll get out of here on your own. That is alive, anyways.” He offers her a cruel smile, and departs from the room.


	22. III

“I like this room.” 

Daphne flops onto the ornate bed, the dust billowing up around her. She scowls, waves her wand around the room, and watches eagerly as the dirt and grime begins to vanish. The glass of the big bay window clears, and the dark wooden floors are no longer covered with a layer of filth. She buries her blonde head between the fluffy pillows.

Pansy snickers at her, her focus turned to the various details of the room. The carving of the wooden armoire, the polished silver snake paper weight resting on the writing desk. She feels a twinge in her stomach, a feeling she can’t quite name. But she feels like she shouldn’t be here.

“What’s wrong, Pans?” Daphne pats the spot next to her, watching expectantly as Pansy makes her way over, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. Daphne reaches out a hand, using her fingers to stroke her friend’s velvety hair.

“I don’t know,” Pansy responds. “It doesn’t feel right to be here. Not in this life, at least.” She offers a weak smile, resting her head against Daphne’s chest. She listens to her heartbeat, and tries to steady her own to match it. “It’s like, I used to come here all the time when I was younger. Before everything got so fucked up.” She sighs heavily.

“I was supposed to marry him, you know. One day, a long time ago. Before he was supposed to marry Astoria. Before he married neither of us. And I remember being told that I was supposed to marry him, and thinking there was no way I could ever do that.” Daphne slings an arm around her shoulder.

“Astoria was so excited to marry him,” she reminisces. “And I was supposed to marry Graham.”

Pansy pushes herself up from her friend, crossing her legs in a seated position. She glances at Daphne, her lashes low over her eyes. “Would you have done it? You know, if everything hadn’t gone to shit?”

Daphne bites her lip, the pink skin swelling between her teeth. She rolls her tongue around her mouth, her eyes fixed on Pansy. “I don’t know,” she breathes at last. “I guess I’m lucky I’ll never have to find out.”

“I would have made a terrible wife,” Pansy groans. “Daph, look at what I’ve become. There was so much planned for me, and I took it all for granted. And now I’m a whore, and I won’t ever marry. Nobody ever makes a wife out of a tramp.”

“Hey,” Daphne swats at Pansy’s arm. “By that logic, I won’t ever marry, either. But I think I’m okay with it. I think there may be more to my life than marriage. I think so, but maybe not. Maybe this is all I’ll ever be.”

“It’s a terrible thought, isn’t it?” She extends a hand, her fingers tracing along Daphne’s jawline. “You would have made such a lovely bride, Daphne.” Her thumb brushes across the blonde’s lips, hesitating for a moment. Daphne parts them slowly, her warm breath brushing against Pansy’s skin.

**

Pansy feels time slowing. Her eyes meet Daphne’s, and she suddenly feels everything. It’s this house, she tells herself. It’s just the house. But as she sits in an empty bedroom of Malfoy Manor, her hands wrapped carefully around her best friend’s chin, she finds herself reliving everything she’s ever wanted to forget. The shame. The sadness. The trauma. The look in her father’s eye when she told him she’d never marry Draco Malfoy. The way he’d slapped her when she told him she’d never marry a man at all. The red, stinging handprint left on her face. The way he’d downed several bottles of Firewhiskey and snuck into her bedroom that evening, promising to show her exactly what she was missing. She closes her eyes, pulling her hand away from Daphne’s face.

**

Daphne can sense the change in Pansy’s mood. She places her hand on Pansy’s thigh. “And so would you. The loveliest, Pans. You’d wear a pretty white dress, though I’m sure you’d look better in black. Oh, or green!” She smiles brightly, gaining a small laugh from Pansy as a few stray tears drip onto her cheeks.

“And me,” she continues, doing her best to keep the subject light. “I think I’d wear pink, if I could. A nice, rosy, baby pink. And I’d want my sleeves to be big like this,” — she imitates puff sleeves with her hands — “And I’d have lace all along the bottom. Mum used to tell me I could wear flowers in my hair on my wedding day, and so I think I’d do that, too.” Her eyes glaze over as she drifts off into her fantasy, Pansy watching lovingly as she describes the detail of her dress, the exact style of her hair, and the height of her heels for the big day.

“Flowers,” Pansy repeats. “What kind of flowers would you have in your hair?”

Daphne fixes her gaze on her friend. She smiles.

“Pansies.”

Another tear leaks out of Pansy’s eye, but Daphne catches it with her finger. “Hey, don’t cry,” she coos. “Look, Pans, we’re going to get the money back. Granger’s going to tell us where the vault is. And when we do, we can leave. We can go wherever we want. We don’t have to stay here. We can start over, start new. You and me until the end of time, remember?”

Pansy sniffles, but smiles.

“Until the end of time.”


	23. IV

Theo wraps his fingers around his wand, pointing the tip at the dusty door handle. He mumbles the incantation, and the lock clicks, the wooden door swinging open to reveal a very perturbed Hermione. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest as she stands firmly rooted to the floorboards in the middle of the room. Theo offers her a cheeky smile, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Good morning, Granger,” he offers. “Sleep well?”

“Perfectly,” Hermione spits back. “Are you going to let me go? They’ll come looking for me, you know. You can’t keep me here forever.”

“Actually, I can,” Theo strides across the room, taking a seat on the edge of the unmade bed. “The Ministry thinks you’re on vacation. You can thank Pansy for that, she’s got your handwriting down to a tee. Learned it back when you were a Prefect. Got us out of a lot of trouble, that’s for sure.” He pushes himself back, leaning up against the headboard. “So, are you going to tell me where the vault is?”

“No,” Hermione retorts. She doesn’t move from her spot in the middle of the room. Instead, she watches Theo settle into the bed with narrowed eyes. She wonders for a moment if she could make a run for it, but she knows she can’t get out without her wand.

“Given any more consideration to my generous offer?” Theo tilts his head to the side, a look of amusal written across his face.

“I’m not helping you rob the Ministry.” She bites her lip, anger forming beneath her surfaces the longer she watches Theo. He thinks it’s a joke. The way he rolls around on her bed, smiling cheekily at her as if they’re old friends. He’s a criminal. She’d never let him convince her to do anything.

“Well maybe not now, but you hardly know me. Here,” he pats the space next to him. “Come sit. Ask me anything you’d like.” But Hermione doesn’t move from her spot. She sighs, wondering if she should talk to him. If she should try and figure out what drove him to this point, what drove all of them to this point.

“Why do you want to rob the Ministry?” She asks, her arms still tightly crossed over her chest. She feels a tiredness growing in her legs from standing, but she doesn’t dare sit down on the bed with him.

“We don’t want to rob the Ministry,” Theo answers. “Well, I do fucking hate the Ministry. But I’m not interested in taking anything from them. I’m interested in taking back what’s already mine.”

“You’re a criminal,” she spits back.

“Correction, my parents are criminals. Did I kill anyone during the war? Sure, who didn’t? But clearly, the Wizengamot didn’t consider me a big enough threat to be locked away. So therefore, I’m not a criminal. Instead, I’m just a guy who can’t afford his rent. And I’m damn tired of it, too.”

Hermione shifts her weight as Theo’s words penetrate her brain. She knows Theo and his friends are spoiled. Selfish. Egotistical. She had expected him to say something more characteristic. That they wanted the money back as a way to fuck over the Ministry. Retribution for their parents. Drug money. She hadn’t expected him to be so honest.

“You can’t afford your rent?” She asks. “You’re not living in your manor?”

“No,” Theo replies. “We don’t have it anymore. The Ministry took it.”

“Why didn’t they take this one?” If the Ministry had been granted control over Malfoy Manor, she’d burn it down in a heartbeat. She’d send Fiendfyre into every corner of the massive estate, and watch until there was nothing left but ashes.

“I’m not sure. Guess they figured they’d rather not have to deal with it. I know they’re using mine for rehab right now. But this one,” he gestures around the bedroom. “Nobody really wants to set foot in here, not with Voldemort’s ghost haunting the halls.”

“So why don’t you just live here?” She had a hard time believing Theo and his friends only wanted the money for rent. There had to be another reason.

“Draco doesn’t want us here,” Theo replies. “We’re only here because we got evicted. And we won’t have to be here for long, if you’d hurry up and tell us where the vault is.”

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” Hermione asks, dropping her arms from her chest. She found herself feeling more relaxed in Theo’s presence. He wasn’t taunting her like he used to. He was talking to her like a human being. It was strange, but it wasn’t bad.

“Fuck, Granger, why would I lie to you? Honestly, I’m not interested in fucking with your brain like some of the others might be. I just want the money back, for me, for them. So we can finally get out of this hell we’re living in. If me being honest with you is what it’s going to take for you to help us out, then consider me your new best friend.”

Hermione bites her lip. She was feeling all too conflicted. She knew the money belonged to the Ministry, and it should. But she felt a twinge of guilt. Was it possible they were truly suffering from their parents’ actions? Or was Theo playing her, knowing she’d cave in if he got emotional? Theo pushes himself into a seated position, his legs swinging off the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed upon Hermione expectantly.

“I’ll think about it.” She mumbles. Theo stands up, moving through the bedroom to the door.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he replies, flashing her a smile, before shutting the door and locking it. Hermione was alone once more.


	24. V

She couldn’t sleep that evening. Surprisingly, she had been able to sleep just fine the night before, which she figured was due to the alcohol and stress. But tonight, as she lay on her back in the darkness, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Theo had told her. Honestly, I’m not interested in fucking with your brain like some of the others might be. I just want the money back, for me, for them.

He could be playing her. He could very easily be playing her, knowing just how much she liked to help people. And she would be helping people, she reminded herself. In five years, when the money was finally donated to the Ministry for good. But the guilt was back in her stomach. Would she really be doing that much good if she had knowingly walked away from five people who were struggling now? It was like she had told Ron and Harry. Think of all the people the money could help right now.

And Theo had made her a deal, too. He’d offered her a cut of the money to donate to the Ministry. She could lie, she could say she didn’t know that the vault had been broken into. But she couldn’t imagine a situation in which the Ministry wouldn’t lock her away for revealing the location. She couldn’t help them. Even if they really needed it.

Did they even need it? Hermione knew things were hard for them after the war. They were social rejects. But didn’t they deserve it? Hadn’t they gotten themselves into the situation? Or had it all been because of their parents? Had they only been acting out of fear, and not belief? She turns over in the bed, covering her face with her hands. She needed to get out of this house. But every time she tried to come up with a plan, to get out and not look back, she found her mind wandering back to that evening at the warehouse. When she’d watched Draco get the shit kicked out of him.

Draco. He bore the look of war more than any one of them. He was skinny, his cheeks hollowed, the dark circles under his eyes constantly present. She remembers the fear she felt as she watched the fist connect with his skull, sending his body to the concrete floor of the building. She remembers how helpless she was, how desperately she wanted to run inside and help him. She could help him now, she thinks. She could.

But she knows there’s no way of telling whether the money would make Draco better. It might only make him worse, and then she’d have given up the only important thing in her life for nothing. She’d lose her job. She’d go to prison. He didn’t deserve her help.

Hermione tries to force sleep, but all she can think about is Draco. About how morbidly sad he was during Sixth Year, traipsing through the school like a living corpse. How he’d jump anytime someone slammed their book shut during class. How he stopped taunting Harry and Ron during Quidditch. A part of her feels sorry for him, it does. A part of her wonders what would happen if she wrapped her arms around him, and prayed as hard as she could for the pain to go away. Because no matter how many times he called her a mudblood, how many times he taunted her in the hallways and bullied her best friends, a part of her would always wonder if he was okay. She’d find herself thinking about the fall he took during the Quidditch match. She’d wonder if he had gotten as many O.W.L.s as he had hoped for. If he was having a good Christmas.

She slaps her palm against her forehead, as if this motion will dispel the unpleasant thoughts from her brain. She hated him. She hated him for kidnapping her, for forcing her to remain in this house. For infiltrating her thoughts so often during her entire time at Hogwarts. For being someone she loved to hate, because the anger made her feel alive.

Hermione feels a few tears leak out of her eyes, staining the sheets with moisture. She doesn’t know what to do. She really doesn’t. She knows she can’t help them without getting fired, without sacrificing all the money the Ministry could use to help people who hadn’t been on the wrong side of the war. 

But she could lie. She could make them think she was telling the truth, make them believe she wanted to help them. And she could get away, and she’d never have to see them again. She’d make herself forget Draco, forget all of them.

She knew she couldn’t tell Theo right away. She needed him to believe her. She needed him to think she was actually telling him the truth. As the faint rays of morning illuminated the bedroom through the grimy window, she came up with a plan. And when the sounds of Theo magically unlocking the door came the next day, she was prepared.

“Morning, Granger,” Theo smiles, locking the door behind him and once again plopping down on the bed. She turns to face him from her spot in the middle of the room, crossing her arms over her chest. She needs him to believe her. She can’t be too eager.

“I’ll help you,” she utters. “On one condition.”

“Granger, the money’s yours, I already told you that.” He moves closer, his arms dangling off of the footboard only a few feet away from where Hermione is standing.

“Yes, the money. But also, I want to talk to everyone first. I want to know exactly why they want the money. If I think the reasons are good enough, I’ll help you.” Theo bursts into a childish grin, but Hermione holds her ground. She knows they’ll lie to her. Knows they’ll feed her whatever story she wants to get her to spill. But she needs them to believe her when she tells them the wrong location to the vault. For a moment, she considers the fake conversations a fair price to pay for getting out of here unscathed. But then, she has an idea.

“And I want everyone on Veritaserum.”

“What?” Theo asks, a look of confusion spreading across his face.

“What? You want me to tell you the truth, so you tell me the truth. Sounds fair, doesn’t it?” She bites her tongue to keep from smiling, proud of herself for having come up with an idea that might actually help. There won’t be any doubt in their minds that she plans to lie, not after requesting that each and every one of them tell her the bare truth.

“Fine then,” Theo utters. “Veritaserum it is.”


	25. VI

“No fucking way.”

Pansy perches on the edge of the bed, Daphne still nestled under the covers next to her. Theo stands in the doorway, flanked by Blaise and Draco, both of whom look very annoyed to have been woken up so early. But Theo knew there was no point in wasting time. The sooner he got everyone on board, the sooner Hermione could start talking to everyone, and therefore the sooner he could get the money.

“I don’t see any other options, Pans. It’s not that big of a deal.” Theo leans his back against the door frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“I’m not telling fucking Granger my deepest, darkest secrets! Why can’t you Crucio her or something?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Theo begins. “Maybe because you can’t Crucio a Secret-Keeper into revealing their secret. Or perform legilimency. They have to make the conscious choice to tell you. So unless you have any better ideas for getting Granger to speak up, I say we move forward with mine.”

There’s a small cough from the edge of the room. “I’m not doing it either,” Draco growls. “You all do it, she should be satisfied with that.”

“Oh, get over yourself, mate,” Theo groans. “Don’t you understand? If we want to get our fucking money back, we have to work together.” But Draco doesn’t budge. He knows that if he tells Hermione the truth, his truth, there’s no way in hell she’ll help them. He fixes his gaze on the dusty corner of the room, earning an eye roll from an exasperated Theo, who turns to the other boy.

“Blaise?”

Blaise straightens his back, his eyes landing on Pansy and Daphne. He sighs heavily. “Fine, I’ll do it. If only to get them out of the fucking strip club.” Daphne smiles from underneath the covers, and Pansy can’t help mimic the expression as she watches her friend’s face light up. She wants the same thing.

“I don’t mind,” Daphne pipes up. “I don’t really have anything to hide from her.”

“Then I’ll do it, too,” Pansy places her hand on Daphne’s leg protectively. Theo narrows his eyes slightly at the gesture, but chooses not to say anything.

“Thank you. Draco, mate, you can go last if it makes you feel better. Who knows, she might confess before then. I suppose I’m off then, to get the Veritaserum.” Theo turns on his heel and disappears through the bedroom door, followed by Draco and Blaise, who closes it behind them.

Pansy settles back into bed, her arm draped over Daphne’s body. She can smell the rose shampoo in Daphne’s hair. The scent is comforting, familiar. Even in this house of horrors.

She feels Daphne’s breathing slow, figuring the girl is drifting off into sleep. But then, she speaks.

“Do you think she’ll tell us where the vault is?”

Pansy tightens her grip on her friend. “She said she would, didn’t she?”

“But do you think she really will?”

“You know Granger,” she nestles closer. “She loves to help people she feels bad for. I know she thinks we’re trying to mess with her by stealing the money, but she’ll realize how wrong she is. I don’t give two fucks about whether or not the Ministry is affected by this robbery. All I care about is that we have enough money to run away from it all. She’s not going to like what we have to say. It’s going to hurt her.” She closes her eyes for a moment, her brain flashing through every painful memory she may have to relive while on Veritaserum. “But then she’ll feel bad for us, and she’ll help us, I know it.”

“What if she lies to us?” Daphne turns over, her face now mere inches from Pansy’s. She reaches out a hand and brushes Pansy’s hair behind her ear. The girl smiles.

“Then we’ll kill her.”

Daphne erupts into laughter, the sound of it causing Pansy’s heart to beat unnaturally fast. She’ll do it. She’ll tell Hermione every last painful memory she needs to tell her in order for her to help them. To help Daphne. She’ll do anything it takes.


	26. VII

Theo was the first to go. He unlocks Hermione’s door, his hand clasped around a small vial of the clear potion. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed this time, but points him towards the wooden desk chair in the corner. He acknowledges her gesture silently, striding over and settling himself down. She eyes him with interest.

“Ready, Granger?” Theo uncorks the vial.

“I am,” she smiles. “Are you?”

“I’m an open book, Granger. Not like you can send me to Azkaban for anything you hear.” Hermione lets out a soft giggle and watches as Theo tips the vial to his lips, swallowing the liquid with a small wince. She’s never used Veritaserum herself. She wonders what it tastes like.

But she knows how it works. She knows she can ask him questions, and he’ll have to answer truthfully. She sits across from him, his eyes watching her expectantly, her brain searching through the questions she thought of earlier that morning. She has a lot of them. 

“Why did you kidnap me?” She starts off easy.

“We knew you were the Secret-Keeper for the vault.” His voice has lost its sly lilt, coming out instead as a monotonic answer. It’s as though Theo has vanished from the spot, and been replaced by a machine.

“How did you know that?” She realizes she never asked how they knew it was her. She wonders if she should have lied earlier, said that they had the wrong person. But she had just gone with it. No wonder she hadn’t suggested herself to be the initial Secret-Keeper.

“Daphne heard you telling Harry and Ron.”

“She did? At the club?”

“Yes.”

“What was she doing there?” Hermione doesn’t recall seeing Daphne anywhere at the strip club, nor any of her friends. She wonders if their paths had crossed going in.

“She works there.”

“Oh, is she a waitress?” Hermione remembers seeing several cocktail waitresses and bartenders moving around the lounge, taking orders and serving drinks to customers. But she doesn’t remember seeing Daphne among them, either.

“No, she’s a stripper.”

She feels her stomach drop. How stupid could she have been? Of course she was a stripper, if she worked at a strip club. But Hermione remembers how sickened she felt by the women who had to writhe around half-naked for tips, and she feels nausea rise in her stomach. The masked dancer. She had blonde hair.

“Why?” Hermione’s voice is low and quiet. She wonders for a moment if Theo even heard her, but his monotonic voice answers her question.

“Because she has to be.”

She bites her lip. Why would Daphne ever have to be a stripper? She didn’t realize that it was something people did out of duty. It seemed more like something people did for fun, as a way to earn a lot of money quickly. Couldn’t Daphne have gotten a regular job? But she realizes she’s spent the entire conversation thus far talking about Daphne. She needs to talk to Theo, to find out more about him. She can ask Daphne those questions herself.

“Why are you trying to rob back the money?” It’s such a simple yet loaded question. Earlier, he had told her he needed to pay his rent. She wonders what he’ll say this time, under the control of the truth serum.

“For Pansy,” he blurts out. His eyes widen and he places a hand over his lips, shocked at the words that have come out of his mouth. He looks at Hermione, and she recognizes his expression immediately. He’s afraid. She’s hit something.

“Why do you want to help Pansy?” She asks. Out of the two girls, Daphne had been the least unfriendly thus far. She can start to imagine helping Daphne, but Pansy? She was always so cruel, so unforgiving. She had insulted her the very second she woke up in Malfoy Manor.

“I’m in love with her.” He slaps his hands over his mouth once more, but Hermione only stares. She doesn’t know them well enough to be affected by this news. And it doesn’t surprise her, either. She saw him kissing her when she first arrived.

“You want the money to help Pansy because you’re in love with her,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do with the money?” Hermione realizes how much she sounds like she’s interviewing Theo for a job. The thought makes her want to laugh. The whole situation was so unbelievably ridiculous.

“I’m going to take Pansy and leave London. I don’t know where we’ll go. But we’ll leave, and we can be happy.” Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the sweetness of his answer. He had been right earlier when he said he wasn’t interested in fucking with the Ministry. He had a reason to want the money. But she wasn’t sure the rest of them would.

Theo leaves the room, the effects of the serum beginning to wear off as he walks through the door. He’s replaced moments later by the tall frame of Blaise Zabini.


	27. VIII

“You want my secrets, Granger?” He asks, another vial of the serum resting in his palm. He sits down in the corner chair, his gaze fixed on Hermione.

“I just want to know why you want to rob the bank,” she shrugs.

“Because it’d be badass, don’t you think?” He flashes her a white smile. She rolls her eyes, waiting impatiently as he uncorks the vial and downs the liquid. She’s ready the second the serum hits his tongue. She has different questions for him.

“Your mother wasn’t a Death Eater.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“So, why are you here?” She crosses her legs on the bed, leaning forward to catch each word of Blaise’s response. She’s wondered about this for a long time. He didn’t have family ties, like the others. He had made the conscious choice to work for Voldemort, and she couldn’t respect him for that. Unlike the others, she couldn’t force herself to believe the best in him.

“I’m broke, too.” His voice had taken on the same robotic tone as Theo’s had.

“Your mother is very rich, I thought. Is she not?”

“She is.”

“But she doesn’t give you any of the money?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Why not?” Hermione knew Blaise’s friends weren’t entirely loved by their parents, but they were certainly spoiled. She had always imagined Blaise was the same way.

“She doesn’t approve of what I did. She wasn’t happy that I helped Voldemort, that I spied for him. She cut me off, and she wrote me out of her will. So I’m broke.”

“Why did you spy for Voldemort?” The burning question finds its way to her tongue. She wants to know why he chose to be evil. Had he really not known any better? It was hard to believe.

Blaise takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the words that will inevitably come tumbling out of his mouth. He looks down at his knees. “My last step-dad was really against Voldemort, even more than my mum. Neither of them liked my friends, especially Draco. In sixth year, I came home for Christmas break, and I told my mum and step-dad about my friends, about life at school. They weren’t happy with me. My step-dad beat the shit out of me that night. He threw me out, he told me I couldn’t come back. The Malfoys took me in. And so I vowed I’d do whatever I needed to help them, and if it scorned my mum and step-dad, so be it.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “My mum didn’t leave him after that. She didn’t leave him until last year. He was beating her, too. I suppose she’d finally had enough. But she chose him over me every time, and once he left, she chose to be alone rather than have me in her life.”

Hermione’s mouth had dropped open slightly. She could feel the tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them away. His answer was not even close to what she had been expecting him to say.

“You chose to work for Voldemort because the Malfoys wanted you to?” She asks, biting her lip to keep her eyes from tearing up.

“They took me in when my own parents didn’t want me,” Blaise shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I do what they asked of me? I owe them a hell of a lot more than just my service.”

Hermione takes a deep breath, the final question rolling around on her tongue. “Why are you trying to rob back the money? None of it is yours, right?”

“My last name is Zabini,” he responds without hesitation. “But I’ve been a Malfoy since the second my step-dad threw me out. I may not have any claim over it, but I’ll do anything to help Draco get it back. He’s done a hell of a lot for me.”

Hermione nods. “I don’t have any more questions.” She watches as Blaise nods his head before pushing himself out of the chair and exiting the room. As soon as the door has closed behind him, she cradles her head in her hands and lets out a small sob. None of this was what she had been expecting. She had been waiting to hear stories, to hear them talk about how much they’d love to fuck over the Ministry and get the money to spend it on cocaine and diamond jewelry. She hadn’t realized their answers would be so raw, so painful. And she’d only spoken to two of them so far.

She wipes the tears from her cheeks and takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the next conversation. She watches as Daphne enters the room, her blonde hair swaying with her movement, and prays that stripping is as far as her demons go.


	28. IX

“Blaise told me about what you do,” Hermione murmurs, after Daphne has successfully ingested the potion. She’s far calmer than Pansy, offering Hermione a small smile as she uncorks the bottle. Hermione wonders how the two ever became friends in the first place. “Why did you choose to become a stripper?”

“I didn’t choose to,” Daphne begins. “But I didn’t have a choice. We can’t get regular jobs, you know. Nobody will hire us.”

“Because of your parents?”

“Yes, exactly. We needed a lot of money in a short amount of time. Stripping made that possible.” She smiles, which contrasts greatly with her monotonic lilt.

“Do you like it?”

“No, I don’t like it at all.” Daphne offers Hermione another smile, but she notices that it’s filled with sadness. As if Daphne has resigned to the fact that she has to be a stripper, no matter what she wants.

“But you do it anyway?”

“It pays the bills, yes. Pansy was one too, but she got fired.”

“Pansy was a stripper?” Hermione could actually picture that one. Pansy had the energy she always imagined a stripper would need; she was fierce, fearless, and undeniably sexy. Daphne, on the other hand, was softer, kinder. She seemed to Hermione more like a ballerina than a pole dancer.

“Yes, but she got fired.”

“Why did she get fired?”

“She beat up a customer.” Hermione’s eyes widen, but she isn’t entirely surprised by Daphne’s words. She knew Pansy was rough, she always had been. Back in school, she often caught Pansy tripping First Years, or shoving students as she walked through the halls. She’d never seen her outwardly beat someone up, but Hermione figured it was because she knew she’d get expelled. Hogwarts had a strict no-beating-up policy.

**

“Why would she do that?” Hermione watches as Daphne bites her lip, as if she doesn’t want to answer the question, but knows she has to. She braces herself for the blonde girl’s response.

“He raped her, and he didn’t pay her for it.” Daphne’s eyes meet Hermione’s, and Hermione could detect a hint of helplessness behind her blue irises. She watches the girl with great sadness, a newfound pity in her heart for Pansy. She couldn’t possibly imagine what she was going through. She felt a twinge of guilt run through her body for thinking the worst of her.

**

“I’m sorry.” Hermione isn’t sure why she’s apologizing to Daphne, but it seems wrong not to. She isn’t sure whether it would be appropriate to apologize to Pansy. She decides it wouldn’t be. She instead chooses to move on to her final question. “Why do you want to rob the bank?”

“I don’t want to be a stripper anymore,” she responds immediately. “I wouldn’t have to be, if I had the money. And then Pansy and I can run away together. Did you know that we have a whole plan? We’re going to go somewhere where nobody knows who we are.” Daphne smiles.

“Pansy is running away with Theo,” Hermione corrects. “He told me that earlier today.”

“Yes, Theo is in love with Pansy,” Daphne replies, her smile not fading from her face. “It’s a terrible shame, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Hermione answers automatically. “Wait, why is it a shame?”

“Because she doesn’t love him. She never has.”

“Why do you say that?”

Daphne’s face lights up, her smile growing even wider. “Because she loves me, and I love her. And she will choose me over Theo every time. But he doesn’t know that, and if he does, he wouldn’t be very happy about it.”

“You’re best friends,” Hermione repeats, trying to make sense of what Daphne is telling her. The blonde stands up from her chair and takes a step towards Hermione, sitting down next to her on the bed. She takes Hermione’s hand in her own.

“Yes. But I love her, Granger. Every night, I find myself in the back of the club, giving blowjobs to dirty strangers who pay me far too little. But it’s okay, do you know why?” Hermione shakes her head no. “Because I have her, I have Pansy. And everything is okay so long as I have her.”

“The money will help you leave with her,” Hermione felt an intense sadness wash over her body, as she sat with her hand clasped in Daphne’s, listening to her talk about how much she’d go through to be with her best friend. She wonders for a moment if this is what true love is. If it is, it means she’s never experienced it for herself.

“Yes, we can leave and we can be free. Doesn’t it sound so lovely? She told me I’d make a lovely bride, Granger. But I’ll only ever be a bride if I can be her bride.”

Hermione smiles at the girl. “You would, Daphne. You’d make a lovely bride.”


	29. X

She takes a moment before receiving Pansy, her arms wrapped tightly around herself in some sort of solo hug. She needs a moment to think about what Daphne has told her. Hermione remembers seeing the two friends around Hogwarts; they were always inseparable. But she hadn’t realized just how far their love went for each other. It made her heart soar, to think that despite all the turmoil they were facing, they were still able to find a way to make it about love. She remembers how she broke up with Ron after things got too tough to handle. She hadn’t been strong enough. But Daphne, she was strong. Hermione could feel the conflict inside her begin to rise up even further.

Pansy wasn’t happy to be speaking with Hermione at all, much less under truth serum. She enters the room loudly, banging the door on the wall, before slamming it shut. She narrows her eyes as she crosses the room, settling herself down into the chair, and tipping the vial down her throat. She keeps the same malicious look on her face even as the serum begins to set in.

Hermione skips the pleasantries and gets right into the questions. She doesn’t want to talk to Pansy long. She wants to talk to Draco. And she knows he’s next. 

“Theo’s in love with you. Did you know that?” She asks, wondering just what the dark-haired girl would say. Would she admit to being in love with Daphne? Or would she continue to pretend to love Theo?

“Yes,” she responds. “I know that.”

“But you don’t love him back, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why don’t you tell him that?” She thinks of the kiss she saw Theo plant on Pansy’s forehead, the way the girl had leaned away ever so slightly. “Isn’t that better than pretending? Why are you pretending to love him, anyways?”

Pansy bites her lip, and Hermione notices a tear leak from the corner of her eye. She wonders if she’s overstepped. But it’s too late to walk back on her question. She’s already asked it. And the Veritaserum means Pansy has to answer it.

“Because I can’t love who I want to,” she says at last. “No, I can’t.”

“You can’t love Daphne.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Hermione wants to reach out, to touch the crying girl, but she knows it wouldn’t be appropriate. But it was hard for her to sit and watch as more and more tears leaked from Pansy’s eyes.

“Because I can’t be gay, Granger. I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Why can’t you?” Hermione watches her expectantly as Pansy’s breathing turns into gentle sobs. She wonders if this is the first time she’s ever had this conversation with anyone. 

**

And she soon realizes that it is, as she listens with horror to Pansy’s recount of growing up, of being sexually abused by her father, of being told time after time that she couldn’t love a girl. Hermione kneels on the ground in front of Pansy, placing her hand gingerly on the girl’s knee as she continues to cry, fighting the urge to vomit in front of her. She doesn’t want to be weak, not when Pansy needs someone to be strong for her. She waits until Pansy’s sobs settle, before stepping back to the bed. She doesn’t want to intrude too much on her boundaries.

“Everything I do,” Pansy cries. “I do it for her. I wouldn’t still be doing any of this if it wasn’t for her. What kind of life do you think this is, Granger? It’s awful. It’s absolutely horrible. And every day, I wake up wanting nothing more than to be done with all of it. But she stops me every time.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione knows what she means. But she wants her to elaborate. She feels like Pansy needs someone to listen to her. She watches in horror as Pansy pulls back her sleeve, revealing a row of thin white scars adorning the skin of her wrist. She feels her stomach lurch.

“She stops you from hurting yourself?” Hermione asks, averting her eyes as Pansy pulls her sleeve back down.

**

“She doesn’t know,” Pansy answers. “But the thought of her is what stops me. I love her too much to ever cause her pain. And it breaks my heart, Granger, because every day in this life causes her pain. It causes all of us pain. And I can’t take that away from her.”

“So that’s why you want to rob the bank?”

“Yes,” Pansy replies. “Because I can try and take away some of that pain. Not all of it, some of it will be with her forever, I’m sure of it. But I can take her away from the strip club, and I can take her away from this fucking city where all the wizards know who she is, and what her parents did, and how her sister wouldn’t help her. And I can give her a real chance.”

Hermione nods in response.

“I don’t want to beg you, Granger, because that’s fucking embarrassing. But please help me. Please help me help her. Don’t do this to her. Don’t send her back into that club.” She stands abruptly, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Okay, that’s okay,” Hermione replies, getting to her feet as well. She watches as the girl moves across the room. “Pansy,” she calls. Pansy stops and turns around to face her.

“Thank you for telling me this.”


	30. XI

Draco doesn’t enter the room right away. For a moment, Hermione wonders if he’s even coming at all, or if he’s decided he hates her too much to speak with her. She takes the time to think about what Pansy has told her, what Daphne has told her, what Blaise and Theo have told her. She wants to help them, she really does. But she doesn’t know if she wants it enough to risk her entire career. She needs to talk to Draco. She needs to hear the missing piece of the puzzle.

The door finally swings open, and Draco is shoved inside by someone standing in the hallway, who immediately closes and locks the door behind him. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, before fixing his gaze on Hermione, who watches him from her spot on the bed. She can feel his eyes piercing her skin, and she feels the sudden urge to cover up. She crosses her arms over her chest.

“Do you want to sit down?” She asks, but Draco only shakes his head. He fingers the vial, removing the cork and swallowing the liquid. He shoves the empty glass into his pocket before turning to her. Under his piercing gaze, she has a hard time remembering what she wanted to ask him. She starts off easy.

“How are you?”

He laughs. “I’m bloody brilliant, Granger.” There’s an air of sarcasm in his voice. “That’s really what you want to ask me? You have me swallow truth serum to ask me how my day is?”

“No,” Hermione spits. “No, I have other questions. I was trying to be polite.”

“Don’t bother,” Draco shoves his hands in his pockets. “Ask your stupid fucking questions and I’ll bare my soul to you, and then we can pretend this never happened. Okay?”

“Okay.” She bites her lip, her eyes surveying the man in front of her. It feels strange to be in a room with him, just him. After all those years in school, and the few years fighting against each other in the war, she feels both comforted and afraid by his presence. He’s familiar. But he’s a mystery.

“I saw you in the warehouse.” The elephant in the room. She knows he saw her. She knows he lost his fight because of her. But she still doesn’t know why he was there in the first place. Why Theo and Blaise were watching, letting it happen. Letting him self-destruct.

“Is that a question?”

“Why were you fighting him? Why weren’t Theo and Blaise helping you?” He laughs coldly and shakes his head. Hermione only watches him, wondering just what he plans to say next.

“Why would they help me? That’s not how it works, Granger. The people bet on me, so I’m the one that has to fight.”

“You were fighting for money?” She can’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth, but as soon as they do, she realizes it all makes sense. Everything they’ve done, everything they’ve told her, it’s all been for money.

“Yes, and it’s your bloody fault I lost it, too. That was our rent money, and we got evicted, and now we’re here. Doesn’t that make you feel bad? Don’t you want to tell us where the vault is now?” He takes a step towards her. “I think you owe me, Granger.”

She doesn’t know how to respond. She knows he’s right. It is her fault that he lost the fight. She distracted him by looking in the window. It’s her fault they’re here. And she could tell them, she could. But she has to lie. She can’t lose her job for him.

“Everyone seems to want the money to leave and start over,” she begins. “What about you? Why do you want to rob the bank?”

He chuckles. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. I don’t want to be in this stupid fucking city anymore. I need cash to get out of here. As far away as I can possibly get. I don’t ever want to meet another fucking person who knows the Malfoy name.”

His answer is sharp, straightforward. But she had to keep probing. “Why did you work for Voldemort in the first place?”

“I didn’t have a choice, did I?” He answers. “My father didn’t really give me a whole lot of options. Sometimes, Granger,” he takes another step towards her. “We do desperate things to get out of hard situations. Though I’m sure you understand that well.” He motions around the room.

She feels a strange confidence growing in her, knowing that he won’t hurt her. That he can’t hurt her, not with Theo standing outside the room. She wants to ask him more, she wants him to tell her more. The next question rolls out before she has the chance to stop it. “Why did you hate me so much?”

He shifts his weight, as if the question has surprised him. It’s surprised her. She didn’t realize how badly she had wanted his answer until this very second. How much she’d wondered what she’d done wrong to gain his hatred. But she wanted to know, needed to know.

“You’re an insufferable, know-it-all, bitch,” he spits, taking another step towards her so that their bodies are nearly touching. He reaches his hand out, his fingers wrapping around her curls. She swallows hard, the proximity making her nervous. She can feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, can sense the ever-present scent of peppermint. His grey eyes make contact with her brown.

“I know that,” she replies dryly, her voice catching in her throat. His fingers release the curl, choosing instead to trace along her jawline. She gasps slightly at his touch, every nerve in her body alighting with the contact. He knows she’ll let him touch her. He knows she’ll do anything for him, so long as she thinks he’s hurt, broken. He has to play his cards right.

“I wasn’t finished,” he snaps, leaning in even closer. His lips are mere inches from hers, and she wonders for a moment if he’s going to kiss her. Why the fuck would he kiss her? “You’re an insufferable, know-it-all, bitch. But I don’t hate you for that, no. I hate you for the way you used to waltz through school like you owned the bloody place. I hate you for your stupid role in your stupid Golden Trio. But Granger?” He tilts her chin up to meet his gaze. She nods. “I don’t hate you at all. Not in any way that matters.”

“What?” She asks, his fingers still firm on her chin. There was blood pounding in her ears, in her chest, in her core.

The cogs in his brain suddenly click into place, and he knows what he needs to do. He bites his lip, the answer resting on the tip of his tongue. “I don’t fucking hate you. I hate that I can’t ever get you out of my fucking head. Did you know that I had finally managed to stop thinking about you, when your stupid ass showed up at the warehouse? I had finally stopped thinking about your stupid fucking hair, and your stupid fucking ass, and here you are all over again. What the fuck am I supposed to make of that?”

Hermione found herself absolutely shocked by his words. She knew he wasn’t lying, he couldn’t lie, not on Veritaserum. But the sentences he spoke were so strange, so foreign to her ears. Was it possible that he had been thinking about her, wondering about her all these years, just as she had done for him? Or was she simply inferring something that wasn’t there?

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she replies. Draco tilts back his head and laughs, his thumb still resting gingerly on her chin. She bites her lip, her cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. “I thought you hated me. You always said so.”

“If I hated you, Granger,” he growls. “Would I do this?”

In one swift move, he pulls her mouth up towards his, and kisses her.


	31. XII

She doesn’t know what’s happening. All she knows is that Draco Malfoy is kissing her, and she doesn’t hate it. She doesn’t hate the way his fingertips grip into her hips, or the way his hand pulls back her head to leave bites along the skin of her neck. She doesn’t hate the way he kisses her deeply, passionately, as if he’s been wanting to do it his entire life. And she lets him, and she doesn’t know why.

Their moans fill the room, as he lifts her up, pushing her back up against the wall of the room. She wraps her legs around him, gasping with pleasure as he attacks her neck, his tongue licking and caressing her collarbones. She snakes her fingers through his hair, rooting them deeply and pulling. He moans in response, and she feels herself growing more and more aroused.

It didn’t make sense. He hated her, he always had. He wouldn’t look at her when she first arrived in Malfoy Manor. But then, he was under the influence of truth serum, and he was telling her he thought about her all the time. And then he was kissing her. None of it made any sense. But Draco Malfoy was an enigma to Hermione, he always had been. Was this something she’d been wrong about too?

She fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, pulling it off of his shoulders to reveal his milky skin underneath. He’s skinny but toned, likely from practicing for fights. He has long, thin scars cut across his pectorals, most of which were likely inflicted during the war. Hermione does her best to mimic them with her nails, clawing into his back as he kisses her harder and harder. He turns around, stepping towards the bed, and throwing her onto the covers.

He lowers himself on top of her, his lips never leaving hers, as he pulls her sweater up over her head. His hand snakes around her back to unclasp her bra, throwing it to the side of the room before detaching his mouth from hers and focusing his attention on her breasts. His tongue circles her nipples, and she moans in pleasure as he praises every single inch of her torso with his mouth. He stops at the waistband of her jeans, unbuttoning them slowly before tugging them down her hips. And in a moment, she’s completely naked.

It’s a strange feeling to be naked under Draco. It’s not at all like it had been with Ron. She feels a moment of insecurity, but it’s soon dispelled as his eyes roam her hungrily. She can detect the admiration in them. He’s looking at her as though he’s never seen anything more godly, more angelic in his entire life. His eyes flick upwards, meeting hers, and he smiles.

“My God, Granger. Look at you.” She blushes, her hands reaching for his belt. She begins to pull it off, but he pushes her back. “No, no,” he tuts. “Not yet.”

Instead, he dives down, his mouth making contact with her cunt. He leaves kisses on the insides of her thighs, inserting one slender finger into her. She groans, and he takes it as encouragement to add another. And another.

“Fuck, Granger, you’re so fucking tight. Don’t tell me you haven’t fucked before.”

But she doesn’t answer. She’s too lost in the sensations to talk. She throws her head back, her back arching as he attacks her clit with his tongue, swirling and sucking in a pattern that leaves Hermione in complete ecstasy. And he doesn’t stop, like Ron would. He keeps going, speeding up, until she feels herself reach the peak. She lets out a shriek as she comes, her body shaking with pleasure. As she begins to come down, Draco removes his fingers and sucks on them individually, his mouth twisted into a sadistic smile.

“If I had known you tasted this good, I would’ve fucked you a lot sooner.”

She’s too out of breath to respond. She waits patiently while he fumbles with his belt buckle, his erection springing up to his chest as he frees it. She eyes it with surprise. She knew he was tall, but she hadn’t expected him to be so big. She wonders for a moment if he’ll even fit between her thighs. He catches her looking.

“Oh, it’ll fit. Don’t worry,” he winks at her. She bites her lip as he lines himself up, turning his gaze once more to face her. “Are you ready?” She nods, and he pushes himself into her.

She can’t describe how it feels, aside from insanely satisfying. Like she’d been missing this part of her life, and now she finally had it. Her nails clung to Draco’s back as he rocked in and out of her, his grunts and moans filling the small room, praises dripping from his lips. He kept a firm grip on Hermione’s hips, guiding them into his own rhythmically as he sped up and slowed down. She couldn’t say anything, all she could do was throw back her head and moan in pleasure, and allow him to take her for a ride.

After a while, she could tell he was reaching climax. His motions began to speed up as he slammed harder and harder into her, his grunts getting all the louder. She clasped her hands around his neck and pulled him closer, sinking him into a deep kiss as he rode out his orgasm, his moans muffled against her lips. She watched him hungrily as she shut his eyes, his brow furrowing in immense pleasure. It was only when his breathing had begun to slow that she released her grip and he rolled off of her into the empty space.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Hermione wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. She wasn’t sure what the fuck had just happened. She turned her head to face Draco, and noticed he had his hands pressed over his eyes.

“Draco,” she mumbles, but he doesn’t move. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Granger,” he answers. “I’m fine.”

She can’t help herself. “Why did we do that?”

He scoffs and turns over on his side to face her. She watches him as he lays an arm over her side and pulls her closer to him. “You mean why didn’t we do that sooner?”

Draco waits until she’s asleep, until he feels her breath slow to a gentle pattern, before pushing himself up from the bed. He reaches for his clothes, pulling them onto his body, his hands darting into his pockets to keep the items from tumbling out. His slender fingers run along the empty vial in his left pocket, and he chuckles to himself. His other hand dives into his right pocket, extracting another identical vial, one with the liquid still in it, completely untouched.


	32. XIII

She wakes the next morning completely alone, the space next to her void of Draco. And everything comes rushing back.

She’s terribly confused. She doesn’t know why it happened, why she allowed it to happen. Was it possible that they were both just lonely? That it didn’t mean anything to him? Did it even mean anything to her? She hadn’t seen him in years, had barely spoken to him over the past few days, and then he fucks her. And he fucks her like he means it, too.

His words rattle around in her brain as she tries to make sense of them, but she can’t. He had told her he didn’t hate her, that he thought about her all the time, just as she found herself thinking about him. And he’d been on Veritaserum. He couldn’t have been lying. But why wasn’t he disgusted with himself? Why wasn’t he shocked at the words spilling from his lips, like Theo had been?

She turns onto her back, pressing her palms over her eyes and letting out a groan. She was tired, so unbelievably tired from the events of the past day. From listening to her peers bare their souls. From realizing they had it so much worse than she could have possibly imagined. From understanding that she was the one person who would determine whether or not things would get better for them.

His words bounce around in her head. I think you owe me, Granger. Did she? Could she really walk away from them, from him, without her heart breaking? Would she be able to go on living, without wondering about Draco, without wondering if he had turned out alright without her help? Could she ever forgive herself if she did?

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Theo unlocking the door. She jerks the covers up over her breasts, remembering at once that she isn’t wearing any clothes. But Theo doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t seem to pay any attention to her naked body at all. He only crosses his arms, leans back against the door, and watches her.

“So? You’ve talked to everyone. Are you going to tell us where the vault is? Are you going to help us get the money out of Gringotts?”

She bites her lip, her eyes locked on his. She has the fake location on the tip of her tongue, begging to be expelled from between her lips. She runs her tongue over the numbers, knowing full well that the vault doesn’t even exist. That they’ll be arrested before they even realize what happened. She opens her mouth to answer him, and Theo leans forward ever so slightly to catch her words.

But then she thinks about Theo’s love for Pansy. Blaise’s debt to the Malfoys. Daphne’s wedding dress. Pansy’s trauma. Draco’s kisses. And before she knows what she’s doing, she’s answering him.

“It’s Vault 916.”


	33. XIV

“Thank you, Granger,” Theo replies, a wide smile spreading across his face. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it? Did everyone make a compelling case?” Hermione thinks back to her conversations the day prior and shudders.

“Something like that.” She pulls the blankets up even further. “Are you going to let me go now? I told you where the vault is.”

He chuckles. “No, Granger. You have to help us get into the bank, too. Do you honestly think any of us can walk straight in and request a ride into the Gringotts system? None of us have vaults in our names anymore.” He takes a step towards her. “We upheld our end of the bargain. It’s your turn to actually help us out.”

She swallows, her heart beating faster in her chest. “I told you where the vault is. I thought that’s what you wanted from me.”

“And that’s really generous of you, Granger, but you do understand we’re talking about Gringotts, right? You have to be the one to get it out. Otherwise, all of this will have been for nothing. Is that what you want? Do you want all of this to have been for nothing?”

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, her memory filled to the brim with Pansy’s tears, Blaise’s dejection. It can’t all be for nothing. Theo was right. They had told her everything she had asked. And now she needed to help them. She had made the choice to be honest. But she wanted to talk to Draco first. She wanted to know how he was feeling.

“I want to talk to Draco,” she mumbles. Theo raises his eyebrows.

“Sure thing, Granger.” He pulls the door open. “Maybe put on some clothes first.” Hermione’s cheeks flush red as he disappears into the hallway. She pushes herself out of bed, reaching for her sweater and jeans, doing her best to ignore the great purple hickeys littering her torso. He needed her help, he had told her himself. And she knew that couldn’t have been easy for him, even on Veritaserum. She couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.

Draco enters the room moments later, his blonde hair ruffled from sleep. He offers her a smile and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning across to plant a kiss on the side of her head. For a moment, he can sense her confusion, and he backs off. He can’t be acting too out of character, or she’ll get suspicious.

“Draco,” she begins. “Last night…”

“Liked it that much, huh, Granger?” He chuckles, causing her cheeks to flush even redder. Her eyes meet his, and he can tell that his plan is working.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate. “Granger, I wasn’t kidding when I said I think about you all the time. I always have, ever since our very first year at Hogwarts. And I’m sorry we’re reuniting like this. But don’t you see that we need your help?” She nods, her eyes darting to her lap. He reaches out a hand, his fingers tilting her chin back up to meet his gaze. “Are you going to help us?”

“I don’t want to lose my job,” she croaks. “I don’t want to go to Azkaban.”

“And you won’t,” he scoots himself closer to her. “Look, Granger, you help us get the money, and you can leave with us. We can all run away together. And you’ll be safe from the Ministry wherever we go. How does that sound?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, playing out the thought in her brain. She could run away with them, with him. She could leave and really, truly start over. She could get away from everyone who knew who she was. She didn’t have it nearly as bad as they did, no. But the war hadn’t made life better for her, either.

“Promise me,” she begins. “That you’ll help me escape. That I won’t be locked up for this.”

He pulls her into his chest, planting a kiss on the top of her head. She closes her eyes, allowing the steady beating of his heart to lull her into a false sense of security. “I promise,” he mumbles. “Granger, you may be an insufferable, know-it-all, bitch, but I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

“Okay. I’ll help you.”

She sits back, offering Draco a weak smile. He pats her hand before pushing himself up and moving towards the door, shutting and locking it behind him. Theo is waiting in the hallway.

“Did it work?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “They really called her the brightest witch of her age,” he feigns gagging. “Honestly, she’s the dumbest fucking bitch I’ve ever met. But yes, it worked. She said she’ll help us.”

“Oh, thank Merlin.” Pansy pokes her head out of the doorway across the hall, the one she’d been sharing with Daphne. Her hair is messy, her makeup smudged underneath her eyes from sleep. She pads into the hallway. “Now what?”

“Now,” Theo grins. “We rob the fucking bank.”


	34. Part Four: I

“Here’s how it’s going to work, Granger.”

Theo paces back and forth in the drawing room, Hermione sitting patiently in the same wooden chair as the night she arrived at the Manor. She was no longer tied to it, but Theo had his fingers on his wand, just in case. Blaise and Draco were standing in one corner of the room, with Daphne resting her head on Pansy’s shoulder in the other. They watched quietly, Pansy sending sneers towards Hermione every time she looked her way.

“You’re going to have to go in alone,” he continues. “They won’t let any of us in there. But Draco, Blaise, and I will wait in Diagon Alley for you the entire time, just right outside the bank. You said there weren’t any security measures on it?”

“Not that I know of,” Hermione answers. “I haven’t visited yet. The only thing we discussed is the nature of the location. I don’t think there’s anything else.” Theo shoots Draco a look, who nods in response. Hermione shifts in her seat.

“Then there shouldn’t be any problems. But you’ll have to be smart about taking the money, because you don’t want to look suspicious. Here,” he turns towards Blaise, who tosses him a cloth knapsack. “We borrowed a page from your book. It has an Extension Charm on it. You should be able to fit all the money in there without a problem. We’ve also casted Muffliato, so there shouldn’t be any sound from the coins hitting each other.”

Hermione scans the room, noticing how the rest of the Slytherins look bored. As if they’d heard this plan a million times before. She wonders how long they’d been working on it before she had agreed to help them. For a moment, she wonders how they knew she’d agree in the first place.

“You’ll tell the goblins there that you need to check on something in the vault. If they escort you, you will not let them inside. Top secret information, after all. We’ll go tomorrow. Sounds good to you, Granger?”

Hermione nods, but Theo leans forward, his hands coming to rest on either side of the chair.

“And don’t even think about snitching on us, Granger. Because I swear to Merlin, every single one of us will sell you out to the Wizengamot. And since you’re the only one who knows where the vault is, I highly doubt they’ll question our statements.” Hermione bites her lip, leaning back further in the chair. She nods again, her eyes darting to Draco. He sees her and straightens up, offering her a weak smile from the corner of the room.

“Good, go.” He motions towards the drawing room exit, and Hermione pushes herself up and hurries out. Pansy follows her, her fingers gripped around her wand to lock the bedroom door. Theo sinks into the chair, sighing.

“I can’t fucking believe how easy that was,” he laughs. “We’ve been here, what? Four days? Honestly, you’d think a Gryffindor who fought in the war would have a little more willpower. It’s you, mate,” he looks towards Draco. “Sex magnet, I suppose.”

“It might be the best idea you’ve ever had, Theo,” Daphne chimes in. “I mean, I’m pretty sure she’s the only one who doesn’t realize how in love with Draco she actually is. It’s not like it was subtle in school. All that following him around, punching him in the face type shit.”

“Not to mention how much she loves people in crisis,” Blaise laughs. “The look in her eyes when I told her about my step-dad. I knew she’d crack. She’s weak. She doesn’t realize that real shit actually happens to people.”

“Draco, mate, how’d you manage to fuck her without spilling how much we actually hate her? You’re damn good at resisting the Veritaserum.”

“I didn’t take it, dumbass,” Draco laughs. “Filled another vial with water. Dumb bitch wouldn’t know the difference. But don’t worry, I made it convincing.” He adopts a fake pout, his voice pleading. “Oh Granger, I think about you all the time!”

The friends erupt in laughter, interrupted only by Pansy returning into the room. “Are we talking about how fucking stupid Granger is?” Theo nods. “Honestly, Theo, this really was your best idea yet. Getting our money back and getting to fuck over the Golden Girl? I’m in heaven.”

Theo pushes himself up from his chair and steps towards Pansy, but she moves back slightly. He pauses, his eyes fixed on her, but she only smiles.

“We should probably get some sleep, don’t you think? Big day tomorrow!” She reaches for Daphne’s hand, pulling the girl out of the room towards the staircase. Theo turns to face Blaise and Draco.

“You think it’ll work, mate?” Blaise asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“It has to,” Theo replies. “There’s no other option.”


	35. II

When Pansy wakes the next morning, the boys and Hermione have already set off for Gringotts. She expects a few hours before they return, if everything goes exactly as it’s supposed to. A lot can happen in a few hours, she reminds herself, as she snuggles closer to the sleeping Daphne. She plants a soft kiss on the back of her head, and wonders what will happen once they get the money. Wonders how she’ll tell Theo she can’t leave with him. 

Daphne stretches and yawns, rolling over in the bed to face Pansy. She smiles, her eyes heavy with sleep. “What are you thinking about, Pans?” She pokes Pansy’s nose gently with the tip of her finger.

“Just you,” Pansy replies, taking Daphne’s hand in her own. “In a few short hours, we’ll be free. It’s finally here, Daph. Everything we’ve been waiting for.”

“Let’s hope Granger does what she’s supposed to,” she closes her eyes once more. 

“She will,” Pansy reassures her. “She’s in love with Draco, she always has been. She’ll do anything he asks. And he’s asked her to do this for him. It’s a shame, isn’t it? How pathetic she is?”

“I think I feel a little bit bad for her,” Daphne replies. “Not a lot, but a little bit.”

“But she deserves it, Daph. Look at what she and Potter and Weasley did to us. Our parents are in prison, and we have nothing. If it hadn’t been for them, everything would have been okay. And we’re making it okay again. Sometimes,” she takes a deep breath. “Sometimes someone has to lose for someone else to win. We lost once. It’s our time to win.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Daphne answers. “I wonder what it would have been like, if things hadn’t turned out this way. If the roles had been reversed.”

“Well, they’d be dead,” Pansy answers. “They would have been killed a long time ago. But in some senses, I think that’s better. I think I’d rather have been killed than have to serve a sentence in Azkaban. The Ministry, they think they’re doing our parents a favor by placing them behind bars. When really, it’s not any better than death. Death is quick, Daph. Death is freeing. Prison is anything but.”

Daphne sighs heavily, her hand coming up to caress Pansy’s face. She parts her lips to speak. “What are you going to tell Theo?”

“What do you mean?” Pansy asks, placing her own hand over Daphne’s.

“He’s in love with you, Pans. And he’s expecting you to run away with him when they come back with the money. But you won’t, right?”

“Don’t worry about that. We can leave while he’s sleeping, we can Apparate away and he’ll never be able to find us. You don’t have to worry.”

Daphne props herself up on her elbow. “Why don’t you want to tell him? You don’t want him to know about us?” She watches Pansy with a quizzical look, but Pansy averts her gaze. She can’t begin to explain to Daphne why she doesn’t want to tell him. Why she’s worried he’ll slap her, or spit at her, or worse, force her to stay with him. She’s not afraid of Theo. She’s afraid of who Theo might remind her of.

“It’s just easier this way, Daph,” she mumbles. “We’ll figure it out later, okay?”

Daphne smiles. “Okay.”

Pansy gazes into her eyes, and she suddenly realizes she can’t resist it anymore. She loves Daphne, and she knows Daphne loves her. And Theo isn’t here. Not right now. She places her hand on the side of Daphne’s face, caressing her cheek with her thumb. And she kisses her.

The kiss is deep, but gentle. As Pansy’s lips make contact with Daphne’s, she feels a warmth spread throughout her body, a warmth she’s never felt before, not with Theo, nor with anyone else. She kisses her harder, her arms wrapping around Daphne’s body. This is love, she thinks. This is what love is supposed to feel like.

Daphne rolls onto her back, pulling Pansy on top of her. She tugs at the girl’s shorts and tank top, exposing her naked body. Though she’s seen it a million times before — in their old living room, in the dressing room of the strip club, after she’s had sex with Theo — she can’t help but marvel at how beautiful Pansy is. She traces the dips of her hips, the curve of her breasts, the shape of her collarbone with a light finger. And she feels nothing but true, unadulterated love.

That’s what it is, true, unadulterated love. That’s what they do. And as Pansy makes love to Daphne, both of them realize just how long they’d been missing each other. Pansy knows with absolute certainty that she loves Daphne, and she’ll never love anyone but Daphne, no matter what Theo or her father might say. She knows that for the rest of her life, for as long as she’ll live, there will be nothing in this world that matters more to her than Daphne Greengrass.

As the two girls lay cuddled in the blankets, their chests rising and falling dramatically, their hair matted to their foreheads with sweat, they feel nothing but peace. There is no fear in this moment, no wondering where the next galleon will come from, no wondering whether or not Daphne will have to give blowjobs or Pansy will have to fuck Theo. Everything feels as though it should. And nothing hurts.


	36. III

Hermione feels the pull behind her navel as her hand makes contact with Theo’s arm, the familiar buildings of Diagon Alley materializing into view. She takes a deep breath and gazes at the marble white facade of Gringotts, a place she’s spent quite a bit of time at over the past few years. She tries her best not to look suspicious, but she can’t help herself from shaking ever so slightly.

Theo passes her the knapsack, shoving her wand back into her hand. “You’ll look suspicious without it,” he grunts. “But don’t even think about Apparating out of here.” She looks towards Draco, who gives her a reassuring nod. She bites her lip.

“If you’re ready, go ahead,” Theo mumbles. “We’ll be right here the whole time. Remember the plan. Get the money, come back out. It’s simple. You’ll be fine.” He pushes her towards the staircase. She shoots one last look at Draco, before turning and walking up the marble steps to the Gringotts entrance.

Hermione smiles weakly at the guards who scan her for any sort of charm. There’s no rule against an Extension Charm on a knapsack, so they let her pass. She makes her way slowly to the front counter, choosing the least unfriendly looking goblin. He looks down at her.

“Um, Hermione Granger, Department of Wizarding Commerce, Ministry of Magic,” she begins. “I need to check on the Devil’s Vault.” He eyes her suspiciously, before checking a piece of parchment in front of him.

“We don’t have a record of that location, Ms. Granger. You know where it is, I’m guessing?” She knew that the Gringotts employees had been briefed on the nature of the Devil’s Vault. She was just hoping they wouldn’t insist on accompanying her.

“Yes, but I need to visit alone. I’m not allowed to disclose the location.”

“Very well,” his voice is bored, tired. “When you reach the minecart, simply tell it the number of the vault, and it should take you there.” She nods, stepping away from the counter. Hermione makes her way towards the minecarts, her stomach churning all the way. She takes a seat into one, leans forward, and whispers. “Vault 916.”

In a moment, the minecart has lurched forward. It zooms down the track, twisting and turning every so often. Hermione remembers an earlier conversation with Gloria and Vuld, about how the journey to Vault 916 is expected to take around ten minutes. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying hard not to vomit, as she waits for the minecart to eventually stop.

When it does, she’s standing outside of a large, silver door. For a moment, she realizes just how easy it would be to break in. No wonder she had planned on adding extra security measures. But it doesn’t matter now. She needs to get this money, for Draco, for all of them. She presses her hand flat against the metal and pushes the door open.

She isn’t prepared for the sight she’s about to see. She quickly shuts the door behind her, gazing up in awe at the massive piles of galleons and sickles littering the room. She’s never seen so much money in one place. It takes her a moment to snap back into reality, but when she does, she throws her knapsack to the ground and begins shovelling handfuls of coins inside. It’ll take her a while to get all of it in her bag.

After around twenty minutes of gathering coins, she straps the knapsack back on, surprised at the lightness of it. She surveys the empty vault, takes a deep breath, and steps out, shutting the door behind her. The minecart is still waiting, and she asks it politely to take her back to the lobby.

As she reaches the lobby of Gringotts, she can feel her stomach churning even faster. She swallows hard, clenching her stomach to avoid vomiting onto the marble floor. She wonders if the employees can sense her sweating, sense her nervousness as she makes her way to the exit. But then, she steps out of the bank and onto the marble stairs, and she sees Draco, Theo, and Blaise waiting for her. Theo bursts out into a smile.

“Well done, Granger!” He laughs, taking the knapsack from her. He peers inside of it, before quickly shutting it and throwing it onto his back. He grips his wand in his other hand, and Hermione notices Draco and Blaise are doing the same.

“Now what?” She asks, desperately trying to soothe the anxiety in her stomach. She wants to get out of here, she really does. But her thoughts are interrupted by a loud blaring coming from the bank. She whips around to see a handful of security guards running out of the doors towards her.

“Silly little Granger,” Theo laughs. “You’d think you’d know, since you work for the Department of Wizarding Commerce, that Gringotts vaults have built-in alarms that go off any time they’re emptied without notifying the goblins. But I guess you never really were that smart, were you? Accio, wand!” Hermione’s wand flies out of her hand, and Theo catches it.

She looks helplessly at Draco, but he only sneers.

“I suppose we’d better get going,” Theo laughs. “But hey, Granger. Thanks for the help. We really appreciate it.” He waves his wand, Apparating away. Hermione watches in horror as Blaise and Draco do the same, leaving her alone, wandless, in front of Gringotts. A sinking feeling grows in her stomach.

It was a trap.


	37. Epilogue

Pansy bites her lip, nervously smoothing down the front of her black dress. She checks her appearance in the mirror once more. She wants to look perfect, needs to look perfect for today. She won’t accept anything less than that.

The door opens, revealing Theo. He’s dressed in a black suit, the tie around his neck ever so crooked. His eyes widen at the sight of her. “Wow, Pans, you look, unbelievable.” He steps towards her, pulling her into a hug and planting a kiss on the top of her head. “You look beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

She smiles at him, a tear leaking from the corner of her eye. He catches it with his finger. “Don’t, Pans. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

“Thank you, Theo,” she utters. “For being here. For being you.” She takes his hand in hers, and he offers her a smile. There’s sadness to it, but only a hint. He looks mostly happy.

“I will always love you, Pansy,” he replies. “Always. No matter what. You know that, right?”

“I do.” Another tear. “And I love you.”

He pulls her into another hug, before stepping towards the door, watching her expectantly. He reaches out an arm. “Are you ready?”

She follows, linking her arm in his. “I’m ready.”

The doors push open, revealing a small room. Draco and Blaise are standing to one side, both dressed in identical suits. And Daphne is waiting in the middle, adorned in a baby pink dress with puffy sleeves. There are pansies woven into her golden locks. She smiles widely at the sight of Pansy, tears leaking out of her eyes as she walks down the aisle, guided by Theo. It’s only the five of them. But they wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“You look beautiful,” Pansy gushes as she reaches the end of the aisle. “I always knew you’d make a lovely bride.”

“I always knew I’d be your bride,” Daphne replies, her hands clasped around Pansy’s. She can hear the audible sniffling of Theo from the side of the room. “It was always you and me, remember? Until the end of time?”

“Until the end of time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn’t what you were expecting, was it?
> 
> I have a theory that if given the chance, Draco and the rest of the Slytherins would fuck over Hermione (and Harry, and Ron), and not look back. There’s so many interpretations on how Hermione and Draco would interact with each other, so I wanted to paint a different picture. I wanted to give them redemption.
> 
> Again, this was my first ever fanfiction, so I’m learning as I go. One thing I’ve learned is that Draco and Hermione’s relationship is insanely complex, and I’m gonna leave that for the SenLinYus and Onyx_and_Elms of the world. Me? I dipped my toes in the pool, and I think I’m good to go.
> 
> If you like my writing style, stick around! You can expect some Weasley, some Regulus Black, some Lavender Brown from me. If you don’t like my writing style, that’s okay too, thanks for reading in the first place!
> 
> All of your comments have made me laugh and have really made my day in the middle of a lonely, isolating pandemic. If you ever need a friend, I’m always here.
> 
> You can find me on TikTok, as always.
> 
> Love,  
> mothermantids


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